I'm Content With Loneliness (You Are The Only Exception)

by spideyboi_0410

Summary:

Formula 1 is a lonely sport.

Oscar supposed it was his own fault for believing that he could meet real friends - actual, genuine friends, not work friends forced by proximity. He used to think Lando was his friend, until he started outperforming his teammate, until Hungary 2024 happened.

All of a sudden, Oscar was alone again. He was fine with that - well, he'll learn to be. Until two drivers came into his life, laughing at his lame jokes and saying his name in a way that makes Oscar's stomach flip like a 12-year-old boy with a silly little crush.

So he lets himself hope, dream, and pray.
For this friendship, for maybe something more, for not getting his heart broken.

Chapter 1

Formula 1 is a lonely sport.

Oscar supposed it was his own fault for believing that he could meet real friends - actual, genuine friends, not work friends forced by proximity - in the pinnacle of motorsports where twenty of the world’s most competitive racers fight against each other every week on track.

Lando was his friend, or at least he used to think so. When Oscar first joined McLaren in 2023, young and inexperienced and slightly intimidated by the idea of finally competing in the big league with drivers he used to have posters of on his wall as a child, Lando was kind enough to take him under his wing. He showed him the ropes around the team, invited him to hangouts and introduced him to the other drivers like Alex and George. And when the car was a complete piece of shit during the start of the season and Oscar couldn’t even finish his first race, Lando gave him an encouraging pat on the back and told the younger boy to keep his head high.

“Hang in there, kid,” he had said with a slight smile, as if he weren’t only two years older than the Australian racer.

So Oscar, like the naive boy that he was, thought that they had become friends - the real kind of friends that would hang out at each other’s hotel rooms, play video games and sim race together, and when things get tough in the team they could lean on each other and rant about the shitty strategies and lousy pitstops that fucked up their races.

That used to be them - and then Oscar started getting better in the car, started getting competitive enough to consistently score points every weekend, started outqualifying Lando every now and again - and that’s when things started becoming different.

Oscar couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when things started to change. There was a slight shift in dynamics that was vague and unnoticeable, and before he knew it or could do anything to stop it, his relationship with Lando had begun feeling odd and uncomfortable. It was Lando’s subtle looks of disdain that instantly disappeared into a tight-lipped smile whenever Oscar caught him staring, the awkward silence that hung in the air when they were together, and the less and less frequent hangout invites from Lando.

The Australian driver was confused - slightly irritated, even - at Lando’s sudden change of attitude towards him. Weren’t they friends? What happened that caused his teammate to suddenly behave this way towards him, showing him unexplained animosity that he so skillfully disguised and brushed off with a half-assed “oh, nothing” whenever he tried to ask if something was wrong?

Things went on like this for the rest of the season - subtle side glances and awkward silence that stretched on - and Oscar’s frustration began morphing into a bitter resignation that faded into the background as the pressure of the season went on. Slowly Oscar couldn’t find the energy within him anymore to continue his unreciprocated effort to figure out what’s wrong and patch things up.

Oscar had never been good at socializing and keeping friendships up - perks of being an introverted and socially-awkward person - but he tried with Lando, he really did. If he wasn’t going to appreciate his effort and decided to continue acting like a dick, then well, there was frankly nothing more Oscar could do.

Before he even knew it, the season was over and he didn’t have to deal with Lando anymore - thank goodness. So he simply shrugged it off, shoving whatever one-sided feud Lando had with him that he refused to explain to the very back of his mind and focused on enjoying the summer with his family, silently hoping that things would somehow miraculously get better next year.

The 2024 season rolled around - much faster than Oscar would have liked - and he supposed things were slightly better between him and Lando after the long-awaited summer break that all drivers desperately needed.

The two were on friendlier terms, and yet something still felt off between them. Oscar guessed he couldn’t really complain about it though, especially since everything seemed to have improved this time around - their cars, the team, their friendship. Lando got his first win at Miami, ridding himself of the rather cruel nickname “Lando Nowins”, and they were both fighting for podiums at almost every single race now. Things were looking up, and Oscar couldn't have been happier.

Then Hungary happened. He won the race - his first win of his career - and yet everything was falling apart once again.

Lando refused to even look at him after the Grand Prix, and Oscar had to admit that it hurt much more than he could imagine as he watched his teammate completely ignore him after he scored his first win in Formula 1. The debriefing was grueling, and it was probably the most mentally exhausting and suffocating meeting in his life with Lando’s constant snarky remarks and jabs at Oscar.

He tried his hardest to ignore him and the hurt that settled in his stomach - sour and bitter and so nauseatingly unpleasant - telling himself that Lando had every right to get upset when the team screwed them both over majorly and had practically emotionally blackmailed him into giving his position back to Oscar.

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that this was all fine, nothing could have masked the quiet voice in the back of his head chanting this was unfair unfair unfair. With every snide comment of Lando and his rightful anger, this was unfair. With Zak’s frustrated sighs and Andrea’s frowning shake of his head as they both glanced at him in disappointment, this was unfair. With the strained quietness that strangled everyone in the room with how shitty the situation was despite it being a McLaren 1-2, this was fucking unfair.

The team had fucked his race over too, so why were they treating him as if he had personally ruined everything for everyone? They had tainted his first win with their abysmal strategy and pathetic radio messages that the media was surely going to have a field day with. His first Formula 1 win that he had dreamed of since his father had bought him his very first go-kart - something that was supposed to be memorable and filled him with such pride and joy that he could burst - now only made him feel ashamed, as if he had personally screamed into the radio and demanded Lando to give him the win, as if he had selfishly stolen the win for himself, as if he had evily orchestrated everything because he could never win the race on his own merit.

When the debriefing came to an end, Oscar had never stood up as fast as he did in that moment and dashed out the door, not sparing a single glance at his angry teammate and the team that had failed him, all the while his head was being flooded with this was unfair unfair unfair.

That’s the cruel thing about racing in a team where you’re labeled as the second driver, wasn’t it? How could Oscar ever compete with Lando Norris, the golden boy of McLaren who had been with them since day 1? Things were never going to be fair, not when Lando was here, and that’s just how things were going to be.

 

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Despite everything that had happened, Oscar still considered Lando his friend. His genuine kindness when he first joined the team and how they bonded initially during his first season wasn’t something Oscar could simply forget. Even though Lando had been acting like a complete knob towards him, he was still once kind to him - strong emphasis on the “once” - but still, that had to count for something, right?

Until one night when Oscar was lying in bed, scrolling through Instagram during his late-night “bed-rotting phone time”, and he came across a comment that caught his eye.

“Lando only likes Oscar when he doesn’t outperform him. Whenever Oscar qualifies or places before him, he’s always whining and acting upset. Such horrible sportsmanship, that guy.”

Then Oscar began remembering the times Lando “accidentally” missed him during the champagne pops when they shared podiums, the cold shoulder he had given him whenever he placed in front of Lando, the subtle jabs and sarcastic remarks that teetered on the edge of cruel in debriefs whenever he out-qualified him - and that’s when he could finally make sense of Lando’s supposedly unexplained anger.

He sifted through his memories and tried to remember when Lando was the nicest to him, and it was during the start of his rookie season when he had struggled to adjust to the new team and new car, finishing the races with DNFs and an occasional P15 - far, far away from scoring points. When he started to become comfortable enough in the car and was able to score a few points now and then, that’s when Lando began acting weird. The very first time he had out-qualified Lando was when his attitude towards him shifted, almost like he had become a different person.

Things were starting to make sense as realization dawned upon him - One, Lando didn’t like the fact that Oscar was out-performing him. Two, Lando was, in fact, not his friend.

That was a painful realization in itself, what’s an even more painful realization was the fact that when Oscar wrecked his mind to think of who his friends were on the grid, he couldn’t really think of anyone. Sure, there were drivers who he was friendly with and would occasionally play padel together, but he wouldn’t necessarily call them friends. Then there was Logan - a familiar face from childhood - but in all honesty, their friendship seemed to have remained stuck and left behind in their teenage years. Apart from the occasional catch-up during the driver's parade and the congratulatory comments he left on Logan’s Instagram that his social media manager claimed would be good PR, the two had not really talked or hung out much outside work anymore.

The driver he was closest to was Lando, which was so ironic that Oscar had to hold in his urge to scoff, considering how the closest person he had on the grid was the teammate who had been nothing but unkind to him these days. Wow, Oscar, way to go.

“No friends, only enemies.” He had once said this jokingly during one of those fanzone events, and at that moment it had seemed hilarious. Yet as he laid in bed, struggling to think of a driver he could call his friend, it suddenly didn’t seem all that funny anymore. It was sad - pathetic even - and fuck, Oscar didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

He supposed he shouldn’t even be worrying about friendship problems - what was he, like twelve? He was a racing driver, for god's sake, competing in a series that countless young minds could only dream of, and here he was being upset over having no friends. How ungrateful could he be?

Yet when he turned off his phone and placed it on his nightstand, there was a sudden loneliness that began seeping into his bones - cold and bitter and unforgiving. It scared him more than anything, the anxiety and the fear and the chilliness that latched onto him and wouldn’t let go, though he would never admit it out loud.

He shook his head in an attempt to shove those unwanted self-pitying thoughts away, blinking into the nothingness while willing his focus back on the race up ahead instead of the sadness clawing at the pit of his stomach, and refused to acknowledge the stray tear that managed to escape his eye, staining his pillow with his sorrow.

 

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The crowd was electric in Azerbaijan, every single seat of the grandstands filled with enthusiastic fans who had travelled across the world to watch the race, chanting and screaming their names and waving the flags of their favourite driver. Oscar had always loved Baku - with its stunning view, vibrant streets, and the locals who were nothing short of welcoming - and he loved it even more now that he was starting the race in P2 and had an actual chance of winning.

Oscar leaned on one of the handrails of the truck, occasionally waving at the fans wearing orange shirts or holding up signs of his name. He took a moment to glance at the drivers around him, all engaging in conversations about how they spent the two week break after Monza, restaurant recommendations here in Baku, the recent padel match they had - and there Oscar was, standing all alone in a crowd of 20 drivers with nobody to talk to, and that’s, well, ouch.

All of a sudden, he felt like he was back at his boarding school in the UK. All alone with his family halfway across the world, immature teenage boys giggling at his foreign accent and unusual slang words, sitting alone at the lunch table and having nobody to pair up with for group projects because his little introverted self had no idea how to start up a conversation with his classmates and could only nod silently with his head hung low whenever a boy was kind enough to try talking to him, only then for him to walk away after being weirded out by Oscar’s unusual quietness.

He wondered if things could be different - in an alternate world where he actually knew how to talk to people, form genuine friendships with people instead of standing there on the sidelines watching as he faded into the static background, maybe he would never have to experience such loneliness again.

“You okay, mate?” A voice snapped him out of his trance, and the Dutch accent and the slight lisp that clung onto the words were recognisable from a mile away. “Yeah, mate, all good,” Oscar said with a smile, his head almost going on autopilot as the lie slipped from his lips effortlessly. He never said he was good at socialising, but he was pretty decent at pretending to be a-okay. Years of putting on a tough front for his family and the media sort of did that to you, trained you to be nothing but stoic in front of the public’s watchful eyes, and Oscar was grateful for that. Max didn’t have to know he was having an existential crisis in the middle of the driver's parade, absolutely not.

Max nodded, all polite glances and rehearsed phrases that only made Oscar wonder when he would get bored with his lack of ability to hold an interesting conversation and walk over to another driver after performing his social obligation of chatting with him. “Excited about the race? Reckon you’d perform well, starting from p2 and all that,” Max said with a smile so genuine that it almost had Oscar believing that it was real.

Oscar somehow found himself smiling along with him. Starting in the front row was pretty freaking awesome - he had a fighting chance of actually winning the race. A year ago, he would have given anything for a P2 in qualifying. “Yeah. Hopefully, I can get a good start and climb up to p1 in the first lap,” he said with a chuckle.

“I’m not gonna make it easy for you, mate.” Another voice joined in on their conversation, and Oscar was already raising his hand to meet Charles’ fistbump before he could fully acknowledge his sudden appearance. The Monagasque driver perched himself next to Oscar, fistbumping Max as well before turning his gaze back onto the younger boy beside him to ask, “So, what’s the game plan? How are you planning to overtake me?”

“Well obviously, I’m gonna crash into you in turn one and force you off the track, and then you’re gonna take out Carlos, Lando, George, and maybe Max in the back as well. Then I’ll cruise on down the track for the rest of the 77 laps and walk away with the biggest trophy.”

A beat of silence went on, neither Max nor Charles said anything - and fuck, Oscar should never have said that, should never have attempted to crack a joke when he’s literally the most unfunny person on the grid. The joke was probably shit anyway, and now they’re going to think Oscar’s weird and lame - as if they didn’t thought of him that way already before this - fuck, Oscar always managed to embarass himself all the damn time, fuck fuck fuck.

Then there was a laughter, light and breathy and boisterous, and then a second sound of laughter joined in, and all of a sudden, Max and Charles were giggling uncontrollably as if Oscar had said the funniest thing ever. “Jesus, Oscar, y - you never told us you were such a comedian,” Charles breathed shakily between laughs, holding onto Max’s arm as his entire body shook with laughter. “Yeah, good one, Oscar,” Max chimed in with an approving smile, giving his shoulder a tight squeeze.

The way his name sounded falling from their lips made Oscar’s stomach twist in an unfamiliar way - not unpleasant, but the exact opposite actually. It made him, well, he wanted to smile, to laugh along with them, to record their laughter on his phone so that he could keep hearing it whenever he was feeling down. He wanted to make them laugh with his jokes that probably weren’t all that funny, wanted to be the reason someone smiled instead of constantly being subjected to unfriendly glares and disappointed sighs, wanted to hear Max and Charles say his name again and again - fuck, okay stop, what was he even doing thinking about this.

“Good luck, Oscar. See you on track,” Charles said to him with a friendly pat on the shoulder as he turned to chat with Pierre, and Max gave him an encouraging smile before walking off to greet his teammate on the other side of the truck. As Oscar stood there by himself once again, his mind struggled to comprehend what exactly had just happened, from the conversation between him and the other two drivers to the bizarre whirlwind of emotions that flooded his head after hearing them laugh.

In the corner of his eyes, he could see Lando staring at him, the same cold look clouding his gaze that Oscar in recent months had learned to become used to. The Australian normally would have become upset, annoyed, and rolled his eyes at his teammate's immaturity, but somehow he didn’t really feel anything at that moment.

Instead, he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the excitement for the upcoming race, the thrill of how he was planning to overtake Charles later on, and the determination of standing on the top step of the podium, to bring a good fight to the other drivers - especially Max and Charles.

For once in a very long time, Oscar found himself not thinking about the team that had failed him again and again, or the teammate that had treated him as a punching bag for his unreasonable anger and volatile temper, or the suffocating pressure to perform well during the race just to prove to his team that he, too, deserved to be seen, to be acknowledge, to be prioritised.

Oscar felt great, and he had a feeling it had a little something to do with two certain drivers.

Notes:

Please feel free to let me know what you think about this story so far :)

Chapter 2

Oscar pinched himself on the thigh, feeling the dull ache that blossomed over his skin, relishing the pain when he didn’t find himself jolting awake in his hotel bed, the dream of winning the Azerbaijan Grand Prix withering away while being dragged back to reality. This was real - the cheers, the screams, the muffled voice on his radio telling him, “Congrats, Oscar, that’s P1.”

He had just won Baku. No papaya rules, no controversial team radio, no unnecessary position swaps, no angry teammates. This time, he had done it all by himself. This time, Oscar wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him.

When he parked his car up in Parc Ferme, right in front of the P1 board whilst listening to the roaring cheers of the circuit chanting his name again and again, Oscar had never felt so alive. It was then that he knew this was how a win was supposed to feel like - electric and euphoric, instead of the engulfing shame that choked him with its merciless claws until the first-place trophy became a distant, pained memory his mind prayed to forget.

There was a pat on his shoulder, and Oscar looked up to see his teammate standing before him. “Congrats,” Lando said with a curt nod and a smile not quite reaching his eyes, and Oscar returned the smile and a quick “Thank you,” when he noticed the camera beside him shoved right in his face.

When the cameraman finally moved to film the other podium finishers, the smile on the British driver’s face dropped almost instantly and was replaced by, well, nothing. There was nothing on Lando’s face - no smiles, no frowns, no glares - and then he simply walked away in silence. For a moment, Oscar wondered if things were forever going to be like this between them - all forced smiles and politely rehearsed congratulations, all for the sake of PR and maintaining a good friendly image for the team, and the thought of it made him wince.

“Oscar!” A voice called behind him, fingers splayed across his back as a hand came up to his shoulder and squeezed. Oscar turned his head to see a suit of red, and there Charles was with his rosy cheeks, sweaty dishelved hair, and beaming smile - a stark contrast to Lando’s forced one seconds ago.

The sun glinted off his tanned skin in a way that made Charles look like he was covered in liquid gold, in a way that made him look so handsome that it almost seemed illegal. Oscar hurriedly blinked those thoughts away, now was not the right time to be thinking about how attractive your colleague was - well, was there really ever a right time for that?

“While I would much rather be the one winning the race, I’d still have to say those were some brilliant overtake and defense, mate!” The Monagasque driver said to him, and Oscar’s lips curved up into a toothy smile, because he had almost forgotten how good it had felt to have someone so genuinely happy for your win despite the biggest trophy not being theirs.

“Thanks, mate. I - thanks,” he answered, because his mind was still going a million miles per hour from the post-race adrenaline coursing through his veins, and finding the right words to say seemed borderline impossible at that moment. He didn’t really know what else to say - he had never been good with words - so he settled on saying nothing.

Staying silent was always better than speaking his mind and risking saying something wrong, accidentally offending someone or mistakenly oversharing too much about himself. He had learned that lesson as a child, when the response he got from his classmates whenever he opened his mouth to say something was mocking laughs and teasing whispers. He had learned that lesson here in McLaren, when the team ignored him and brushed aside his input during team meetings time after time.

So he stayed silent and simply smiled. It was safe. It was what he had known.

Somehow, his lack of a proper response didn’t seem to weird Charles out as he originally expected it to. There was no look of judgment, no awkward side glances, no hint of discomfort. All he did was smile back, still bright and genuine as ever, and he gave his shoulder another playful slap before saying, “See you on the podium, Oscar. We’ll celebrate tonight, yeah?”

When he stood on the top step of the podium as the melodic tune of his national anthem echoed through the Baku City Circuit, when he lifted up the first-place trophy in the air as the crowd roared in excitement, when Los Toreadores began playing and champagne was being sprayed in his face and blurring his vision, he thought about how fucking good it felt to win, and he thought about Charles’s smile.

 

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The first mistake Oscar made of the night was agreeing to go out. There had been no McLaren celebration planned that night since, apparently, the team had an emergency meeting with one of their major sponsors. He had no problem with that - a quiet night spent in the comfort of his hotel room as he ordered room service for himself and channel-surfed sounded much more appealing anyway.

Then his phone lit up with a WhatsApp notification from Charles (which almost sent Oscar into cardiac arrest, but, we don’t talk about that) - first explaining how he got his number from the drivers' group chat, and then another message that read “You’re coming out with us, right?”.

Oscar wanted to say no, was in fact about to say no, but then he typed out the “Sorry, maybe next time” message and couldn’t quite muster up the strength to hit send. So he deleted the letters, contemplated all his life choices, and responded with a simple “Ok” instead.

So that’s how Oscar ended up in the nightclub, the place overflowing with drunk party-goers and near-deafening mainstream pop music of Charli xcx and Travis Scott on repeat while the Australian driver sat at the bar, making his second mistake of the night - drinking.

The thing about Oscar was that he and alcohol never mixed well. Growing up, he had never quite gotten the appeal of gulping down bitter, rubbing-alcohol-tasting liquid and getting drunk with nothing but a throbbing headache and a dreadful hangover to remember on the next day.

The only time he had ever gotten drunk was on his eighteenth birthday where he decided fuck it and allowed himself to drink a couple (a lot) of piña coladas - the only drink on the menu that looked sweet and actually palatable - and gotten so pissed that he drunkdialled his ex-girlfriend back from home and cried to her about how guilty he had felt for neglecting her for racing back when they were together.

Some tragic memory that was, completely embarrassing, and Oscar swore to never let himself drink that much again when he had to text her just how sorry he was for the drunken call the next morning. She was kind enough to forgive him and texted back “take care of yourself”, and Oscar, as grateful as he was, blocked the girl afterwards to save himself from the embarrassment.

It was better that way - for the girl to forget about him and for him to remember to never let himself get so drunk that he lost control, let himself get vulnerable, and expose the thoughts he much rather kept buried within him.

But as Oscar walked into the club of drunk bodies pressed against each other, seeing a few familiar faces of other drivers as they engaged in their own conversations, sitting at their own tables while some others danced along to the music with their partners, Oscar suddenly felt like he was sticking out like a sore thumb, unsure where he fitted in.

There wasn’t a table he could just walk up to and join, there wasn’t a group of friends to meet up and play drunken beerpong games with (did people still play beerpong in parties like these, or was that just a movie thing? Oscar had no idea). Without anything better to do and not wanting to stand near the entrance any longer looking like a complete fool, he made a beeline to the only place he knew - the bar - and ordered himself a piña colada for old times' sake.

He was about halfway through his second drink when he could feel someone come up next to him, the recognizable Ralph Lauren cologne filling up his space until all he could smell was Lando Norris. “Surprised seeing you here,” said the British man as he ordered himself two shots of whiskey, staring straight ahead of him as if he hadn’t just said something to Oscar.

When the bartender came back with Lando’s order, he placed one of the shot glasses right in front of Oscar, finally meeting his gaze as he said to him, “Here. Have a proper drink instead.” There was a glint of challenge in Lando’s eyes, daring Oscar to drink it, to comply, to relent, to be good.

When Oscar didn’t move, Lando tilted his head back and finished his own drink in a single gulp, and then he was staring into his eyes again. “So… how does it feel to win Azerbaijan, Osc? Feeling like a first driver yet?” he said, and the cruel grin that painted on his face was laced with so much condescension.

Oscar sighed, so so tired of this - whatever this mess with Lando was. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tried his best to mask the complete exhaustion in his voice when he finally opened his mouth to ask, “What do you want from me?”.

If the question took the older man by surprise, he didn’t let it show. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and then his usual confident smirk appeared on his face again. “I just want to know how it feels to win the race, Osc, come on. Is it better than Hungary?”

“I don’t understand, Lando, what is it that I did so wrong that you’re treating me this way?” It must have been the alcohol in his system because sober Oscar would never have said what he had just said, would never let Lando get on his nerves like that.

The normal, not affected by alcohol version of him would simply shrug off his mocking words and shove down whatever emotion that was gnawing at his chest, and do what he did best, pretending to be unaffected by his immature antics and walk away.

This was all the stupid piña colada’s fault, Oscar concluded, because here he was sitting in a dimly lit bar, with his wobbly voice and trembling lips asking Lando why he was being such a dick to him. Staying silent was always better than speaking his mind - so why couldn’t he just keep his stupid mouth shut?

The previously wicked grin on Lando’s face morphed into a pout, taunting and so condescending that it made Oscar nauseous. “You’re so pretty when you look like you’re about to cry.” His words knocked the air out of Oscar, and he almost felt like drowning as Lando leaned in closer and closer, so close that he could count each individual mole that adorned his honey-colored skin.

“What I want from you, Oscar,” he started, an evil sneer tugging at his lips, “is for you to remember your place. I want you to remember how it felt when I handed you your win in Hungary. I want you to remember that this will forever be my team.”

And, that’s just, okay.

Oscar wanted to say that he had never expected Lando to be capable of being so cruel, but that would be a lie. He had always known that beneath his playful, nonchalant persona lurked a man who thrived on control and power and was willing to do anything to get what he wanted. However, to actually hear those words coming from his mouth, it still stung, much more than he’d like to admit.

“Enjoy your night, Osc.” Just like that, Lando had disappeared into the buzzing crowd, traces of him completely vanishing apart from the grapefruit, woody scent his cologne had left behind and the glass of whiskey he had ordered for Oscar. Even with him gone and out of his sight, his words continued to linger and replay inside his head, each one cutting deeper than the last.

With a frustrated sigh, he downed the rest of his drinks, both the unfinished piña colada and the shot of whiskey. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, and the fiery sting had felt oddly satisfying, as if reminding Oscar of the rage that he should have had for the team, for Lando.

But as Oscar stepped outside the bustling club and settled on an abandoned marble bench in a secluded corner, hidden in the dimmed shadows and away from the crowd and their watchful eyes, the only thing he could really feel was exhaustion. There was no rage, no anger, no hatred, just complete and utter tiredness slithering into his bones.

It started as an itch in his nose, a prickly feeling in his eyes, a burning sensation scratching at his throat. He wanted to cry, he wanted to cry so badly it hurt. It felt like he was back in boarding school all over again - he wanted to call his mother, to talk to her, to curl up in her embrace and tell her about how lonely he was being here without them, to have her stroke his hair gently while whispering that everything was going to be okay even though it was not.

Taking out his phone from his pocket, his finger lingered over the contact of his mother, and his heart was screaming for him to just hit the call button. “No,” he exhaled a dejected sigh, and shut off the screen of his phone because his mother already had enough on her plate. The last thing she needed was to worry about her 23-year-old son halfway across the world. No, he couldn’t do that to her, didn’t have the heart to make her worry and add to her burden.

The night wind picked up its speed, rustling the trees beside him as the chilly air bit at his face, and Oscar was suddenly washed over with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He thought he could have gotten used to the feeling by now, but could anyone really ever get used to this icy, hollow ache in their chest?

The faces of his family flashed in his mind - his mother’s doting smile, his father’s encouraging words before each race, his sisters who never failed to come up with annoying teases but always the first to jump in and defend him. It was a stark contrast to the isolation he felt in this bustling city, in this extravagant sport, constantly surrounded by people yet completely alone.

“Oscar! Here’s our race winner!” Max’s voice broke through the tranquil silence of the night air, and he was immediately striding over to him with a beer in his hand and a wide grin etched on his face. Oscar’s melancholy didn’t go unnoticed by the Dutch driver, and when his eyebrows pinched together in concern and his smile shifted into a worried frown, Oscar almost felt guilty for ruining his night with his own sorrow, his own problems.

“Hey, hey, you alright? Did something happen?” There were no signs of tease or taunt in his voice, just raw, genuine concern for his well-being. The words “I’m okay” lodged at Oscar’s throat, stuck at the tip of his tongue, but the damned words just wouldn’t come out no matter how hard he tried to utter them out. It was almost comedic how his mouth fell open, and closed, and opened again, like a fish gasping for air on dry land. “I - I don’t…”

Staying silent was always better than speaking his mind. Staying silent was always better than speaking his mind. Stay silent stay silent stay silent.

“How much have you had to drink?” Max asked in a hushed whisper. Well, Oscar could really start to feel the alcohol getting to him now. He wasn’t drunk, not really, just buzzed. A warm blurry haze settled over his sight, dulling the sharp edges of his hectic mind, and he realised that he could blame whatever he did or say at this very moment on the alcohol, he could finally have a reason to let loose and speak his mind and let himself feel. So for once, he stopped biting his tongue. He spoke, and Max was going to be his unfortunate audience.

“Do you ever feel like… you’re always around people, your team, your teammate, all the other drivers, the media. You’re never really alone ever, but somehow, you still feel alone. It sounds ridiculous, right? You’re surrounded by all this noise, like - it’s so loud all the time, but I… I just have this emptiness in my chest. It makes me feel sick, like a ghost… I don’t think people can see me sometimes. I don’t think… McLaren sees me at all.”

Frankly, he had no idea what the hell he was even talking about anymore - he was simply rambling on and on, struggling to piece together the storm of thoughts inside his head. He supposed he had never had the chance to articulate his thoughts into comprehensible, meaningful words before, which explained the tangled-up, almost nonsensical words that were spilling from his lips as well as the look of total confusion on Max’s poor, clueless face.

“Okay, Oscar, slow down,” Max said to him while placing himself on the seat beside him, gazing into his eyes with such gentleness that all Oscar wanted was to be wrapped up in whatever this was, in whatever Max was willing to give him. “It’s okay. I’m here.” A warm hand wrapped its way around his arm, his touch gentle and grounding, and slowly he repeated, “I’m right here.”

It’s getting hard to breathe, his stomach coiling with something raw and painful, and the tears biting at his eyes were getting harder and harder to hold back. How could he hold back when Max was looking at him as if he could see him, really see him? How could he hold back when Max was making it so safe to just let go?

“I’m so fucking lonely, Max,” Oscar breathed out a chuckle, and it suddenly dawned upon him that he had never admit it out loud before. Saying it made it real, real in a way it wasn’t before, and the thought of it was… really fucking scary. He thought he was laughing, until he could taste salt on his tongue and feel something hot trailing down his cheek.

Oh.

“I’m so alone that… I’m scared. I’m so scared that this feeling will never go away, that it will keep eating at me until there’s nothing left…”

Max could only lean in closer to the boy, his hand that was originally around his arm moving to wrap around his trembling shoulders as he listened to Oscar’s pained sniffles with a wince of his own. “It’s going to be okay, Oscar. Shh…” Oscar appreciated Max’s words - there were no lectures, no pretending to understand how he was feeling, no disregarding his feelings or dismissing his struggles.

Somehow, Max managed to tell him the one thing he desperately needed to hear - things were going to be okay.

“Max, I got your text! What happened? Is Oscar okay?” A frantic voice sprinted towards the pair, each word separated by sharp intakes of air as if the man had run as fast as he could to reach them. “Mon dieu, Oscar, are you hurt?” Charles wasted no time, dashing over to kneel in front of Oscar, urgent hands reaching for his cheeks as he looked him up and down for any signs of injury.

“He’s not hurt, Charles, calm down. Let’s just… stay with him, yeah?” Max spoke quietly, his hand continuing its gentle pats over Oscar’s shoulders. “What? I - yeah, okay…” and Charles gently released his hold on Oscar’s tearstained cheek, took a seat on the other side of the bench, his worried eyes never leaving the Australian boy beside him.

Even though he wanted more than anything to know the reason behind Oscar’s tears, to find out whatever it was that made him cry, to make it all better so that he never had to see him cry again, he chose to stay silent instead. What Oscar needed was space and company, and the least Charles could do was give that to him.

The air fell silent once again. Oscar’s eyes fluttered closed slowly, and he thought about his family, his childhood self as he fought his way up the ladder to Formula 1, Lando’s words at the bar, the shot of whiskey that he bought him, the soothing brush of Max’s fingers, the grounding presence of Charles.

He thought about Melbourne, home, and how much he missed being there. He thought about the loneliness that stifled each breath he took - the loneliness that seemed less suffocating, now that Charles and Max were here with him.

Notes:

let me know what you think about the story so far and this chapter <3
i liveeeeeeee for your comments and i'm dyinggggg to know what you all think!!

Chapter 3

The pulsating headache that pounded against his skull, the parched throat that had no difference from grating sandpaper, the dreadful nausea bubbling at the pit of his stomach, and the intermittent urge to throw up everything he had ingested the past week  - Oscar remembered this feeling all too well.

The last time he had experienced such a horrendous hangover was the next morning of his eighteenth birthday, and he spent the entire day alternating between hurling into his toilet and wallowing in paralyzing embarrassment in his bed as he struggled to type up an apology text to his ex-girlfriend for drunk-dialling her by accident.

Oscar swore to never make the same mistake again - yet here he was, 5 years later, stuck in a terrifyingly similar predicament as if he had learned nothing. Instead of drunk-calling his old girlfriend like he did last time, he had broken down and cried about being lonely in front of Charles and Max. Both incidents were caused by drinking more than he should, and both incidents ended with him completely humiliating himself. 

God damn it, Oscar. 

The bottle of water sitting on his nightstand had never tasted so good as he chugged down the entire thing, each gulp a small relief to the literal Sahara Desert lodged in his throat. When he tossed the empty bottle at the bin near the door, completely missing his mark as the piece of plastic landed pathetically on the floor next to it, Oscar couldn’t help but groan, “What is the matter with me?”

Fragments of last night flooded his brain despite his best efforts to block them out, and the wave of embarrassment that washed over him was almost debilitating - it made him want to dig a hole, bury himself in it, and never see the light of day again. 

What was he even thinking last night? 

Well, that’s the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t doing much thinking at all. Just one tender look in Max’s eyes and it was enough to have Oscar spilling his entire heart out, the words that were supposed to remain stowed away in the little dark corner of his heart pouring out like an avalanche that couldn’t be stopped, as if being honest and vulnerable in front of Max was the easiest thing Oscar had ever done.

He had always taken pride in his ability to bite his tongue and stay silent, to not let his vulnerability show, to be the cold and emotionless version of himself the world had become expectant of - even though he was anything but. 

That’s what happened when you’re shoved into the limelight at a young age, competing in a sport where the world was scrutinizing your every move, ready to pounce on the tiniest mistake and destroy the career you had sacrificed everything to build. 

You learned to become vigilant, to be so careful, to be the version of yourself the media wanted to see just to keep yourself safe. At first, you’d do anything to stop it, and then you’d eventually succumb to it all and become an empty shell of the person you used to be. You’d slowly realised that somehow in the process you had lost yourself - the person you swore to never lose - and that would hurt more than losing any races or championships ever would.

Staying silent and not speaking his mind. That was supposed to be his life motto to survive in Formula 1, for god’s sake, so why wasn’t he able to do that - something he had been doing for the past thirteen years - last night when Max found him outside the club? The carefully crafted image he had spent years creating crumbled away in a single night, yet somehow it didn’t feel like the worst thing in the world.

Oscar exhaled in vexation, running his fingers through his tangled-up hair, and he didn’t let himself think about how safe it had felt to be in Max’s arms, to be surrounded by the comforting presence of both Max and Charles. He didn’t think about the relief hidden under the layers of absolute mortification - the feeling of finally being able to take a breath after admitting the thoughts that had haunted him for the longest time. 

It was the second time that week Oscar had almost gone into cardiac arrest when his phone lit up with a WhatsApp notification, this time coming from Max instead of Charles. Then another “ding!” came from his phone, and another one, and another one, until he could hardly keep up with the flood of messages.

 

Max Verstappen:

Hey, Oscar! Max here.

Verstappen.

Hope ur feeling better.

Please text back when ur
awake. I’m really worried.

And sorry for texting Charles
about what happened last night.

He was so worried cuz he
couldn’t find u at the club.

But I won’t do it again if u’re not
ok with that.

Please text back and let us
know u’re okay?

 

Oscar didn’t know what to think about the messages, didn’t know what to do with Max’s genuine concern and the urgency lacing through his words to know if Oscar was alright. His fingers hovered over the keyboard on his phone, typing and deleting, typing and deleting - he had always been horrible at texting.

Me:

I’m okay.

Sorry about last night.

 

That seemed like an appropriate response, Oscar thought to himself - short and safe and not revealing too much, unlike his jumbled-up words the previous night. When the grey double-ticks turned blue and a text bubble appeared in the left corner of his screen, Oscar’s heart picked up its pace ever so slightly, pitifully, like he was a teenage boy texting his crush.

 

Max Verstappen:

Glad to hear that, and
no need to be sorry.

No one really talks about
how hard it is being in F1.

 

Oscar had never been more grateful. He had never been more grateful than he was at that very moment when Max didn’t tell him that he gets it, that he’s sorry for whatever he was going through, didn’t show him pity or judge him for breaking apart so easily. Grateful that somehow, Max always seemed to know exactly what to say. 

 

Max Verstappen:

Look, no pressure at all.

But Charles and I wanted to
know if u’d like to hang out

Grab lunch together or something.

U recently moved to Mocano, right?

There’s this place that serves
the best Greek food. 

Let us take you there this
Saturday, show you around the city.

It’d be fun.

😊

 

He paused, staring at his phone, at Max’s kindness, at the invitation that he wanted so desperately to say yes to. Lunch sounded nice, really nice, and so did the idea of hanging out with Max and Charles. Yet the rational part of his brain was telling him to say no, to make up some lame excuse that he was busy and shut this thing down, shut it down before it becomes something more and something real and breaks his heart because that was always bound to happen every time he let someone in. 

Because that was exactly what had happened with Lando.

Say no. Say that he already had something planned ahead. Tell Max he appreciated the offer but he’d have to pass. Tell him maybe next time. Say no because it’s the safe option, because it would spare him the eventual heartbreak when they ultimately realised that they didn’t want to be his friends anymore, because pushing away people was the only thing Oscar had ever known, because the last time he had let someone in, he was left behind all alone to pick up the broken pieces of a tainted trophy and a shot glass full of whiskey.

Say no.

Me:

I’d love that.

Thank you.

 

Max Verstappen:

Great 😊

I’ll text you the details later.

 

Just seconds later, Oscar received a text message from Charles.

 

Charles Leclerc:

sooo excited for our hangout!

you will not regret it :)))))

 

Oscar’s heart was thumping against his chest, panicked and frantic and scared - so scared. It had almost felt stupid how something as trivial and minute as saying yes to a hangout with two fellow drivers was enough to throw Oscar into a turmoil of emotional mess. And in truth, it was stupid.

But he had never meant to say yes, never meant to agree to the invitation despite how badly he yearned to. And now, by saying yes, he was willingly giving Max and Charles the power to not only come into his life, but to leave him as well - and that, Oscar was terrified. 

And yet despite the crippling fear that grasp at him, he said yes. He said yes because, for once in his life, he wanted something to change. He wanted that friendship and their company and whatever they were willing to give him because Oscar had had enough of the solitude that he spent years telling himself that he was okay with. 

He thought about Charles’s affectionate smile and Max’s tender eyes, and he realised that there was a part of him willing to go through that fear. Even after everything that had happened with Lando - when his teammate turned his back on him and ripped him apart after making him believe that they were friends - Oscar was still willing to try again. And perhaps that was the scariest part of it all. His flicker of hope.

As he stared at the texts between him and Max, especially that one where he agreed to their charitable invite, there was a solemn prayer echoing in Oscar’s heart. He wished that this time things would be different, and he wished that his heart would be spared from the heartache he had gone through way too many times.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Oscar wanted to throw up.

The Greek restaurant located in the heart of Monaco was overflowing with its loyal patrons and enthusiastic tourists. Oscar sat alone at a table, fidgeting nervously in his seat as he awaited Max and Charles’ arrival. 

Nerves weren’t something Oscar experienced very often - being an F1 driver and having to be constantly under pressure and all that - so this was an odd feeling.

His stomach gurgled with something, some type of feeling he couldn’t quite pinpoint - apprehension, excitement, and a tinge of hope. It kinda made him want to throw up, but in a good way, if that even made sense.

“Oscar! You’re here!” Max’s boisterous voice echoed in the distance, catching the eyes of a few customers nearby as the two drivers took a seat at the table. Oscar didn’t think it was just his loud greeting that drew attention, though; Charles and Max had always commanded the room everywhere they went with their magnetic presence and radiating confidence. It would have made Oscar envious if he weren’t someone who hated having people’s undivided attention on him - aside from those rare moments when he basked in the glory of winning a race.

“I’m so glad you said yes to lunch, Oscar. The Pastitsio here is unbelievable! Max and I come here whenever we crave Greek,” Charles chimed delightedly as he flipped through the menu and pointed out all the best dishes, and Oscar nodded along to each recommendation as his mind tried not to dwell on the slight awkward feeling that he was, in a way, thirdwheeling the duo with his presence.

When the excited Monagasque finally finished going through and “leclerifying” the entire menu, satisfied at his detailed explanation of each dishes that Oscar simply had to try - which was almost every single one - he turned to look at the man beside him expectantly and asked, “So, what are you gonna get?” 

“Umm - I’ll just get whatever you’re getting,” Oscar answered hurriedly with a shrug, and he couldn’t help but cringe at his lame and less-than-original response. He wondered if Charles was going to laugh at him because he couldn’t even make a simple decision about his own choice of food. He would have laughed at himself.

The mocking laugh never came. Instead, Charles was beaming at him with his usual radiant smile and mesmerizing green eyes, as if he was actually happy with Oscar’s answer and the fact that he wanted to go with his choice. “I’ll get the Pastitsio then. You’ll love it, Oscar, trust me!” he grinned victoriously as his shoulder peaked in excitement, and Oscar knew he’d love it - he had a feeling he’d love it even if it tasted like cardboard, because Charles had ordered it for him.

Charles turned his head toward the other man at the table. “What about you, Max? Perhaps a salad?” he said to him jokingly, his mouth already pulling up into a mischievous smirk as the question fell from his lips. Max gasped in feigned offence, dramatically raising a hand to his chest, “Perhaps not. I’ll have the steak smothered in onions, a rack of ribs, pasta with extra garlic, french fries with lots of vinegar, and a side of onion rings with lots and lots of sauerkraut.”

Oscar choked on the water he was sipping on, shell-shocked by the words he was hearing while desperately trying to catch his breath. When his spluttering coughs finally subsided - thanks to Charles’s concerned pats on his back and frantic “are you okay”s - he opened his mouth in utter disbelief to ask, “Was that a White Chicks reference?”, because there was simply no way Max had not only watched the movie before, but was able to recite the iconic restaurant scene so perfectly, word by word.

Max’s eyes lit up in interest as his smile widened so much it almost reached his ears, and he grinned so excitedly as if he couldn’t believe Oscar had understood the reference, “You know White Chicks?” Oscar broke out into a smile of his own, “Are the Wilson sisters one of the most iconic characters to have ever been created? Of course, I know White Chicks.”

Oscar had once said during a fan event that his favourite movie was The Gentlemen, which technically wasn’t a lie - it was a great movie that he thoroughly enjoyed. But one thing the world didn’t know about the Australian driver was that comedy and chick-flicks from the early 2000s were his absolute guilty pleasure. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, She’s the Man, 50 First Dates, Legally Blonde. Cried to most of it (he was an emotional teenager, leave him alone), loved every one of it.

There was a clueless expression etched on Charles’s face when he glanced back and forth between the other two drivers. “Who are the Wilson sisters and the white chicks? Can we… are we allowed to say that? That is… racist, no?” he asked, nervously peering around their table to see if anyone could hear their conversation - a rather scandalous one, Charles had feared. 

“It’s a movie, Charlie, have you not seen it?” Max said to him with a chuckle, and there was a fondness in his voice that seemed to be reserved only for Charles. “Well, you never showed it to me, have you?” the Monagasque driver retorted while crossing his arms in mock indignation, and yet his voice was soft and tender. 

It made Oscar’s heart swell, ache, flood with something that resembled a sense of longing. A longing for this back-and-forth banter, this effortless and playful teasing that came so easily, and for this friendship he felt like he could just reach out his hand and let himself have.

“Well, now we have to show Charles the movie, Oscar. It’s the only reasonable thing to do, no? We can’t have him missing out on this cultural masterpiece,” Max leaned back on his chair to say, raising his eyebrows expectantly as if he was waiting for Oscar to agree. 

Reach out his hand and let himself have. 

So Oscar nodded, hopeful and sincere, “I can never say no to a White Chicks rewatch.” Max smiled, one that was gleeful and triumphant now that Oscar had agreed to the movie date, and the sight reminded him a little of Charles’s smile - the way it made him feel, made him slightly weak in the knees. 

“It’s settled then? Movie night at my house tonight,” Max spoke with palpable excitement. It’s almost adorable how Max Verstappen, the reigning F1 world champion whom the media tried so hard to portray as a ruthless winning machine, was getting excited over a White Chicks movie night. It made Oscar’s heart do something strange. “Fine. But if the movie’s bad, I’m blaming the two of you,” Charles muttered, knowing damn well he’d love anything they showed him. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“So, how do you like Monaco so far?” 

Oscar was in the middle of savouring his bite of the Pastitsio, which frankly was one of the best dishes he had ever tasted ever since moving here and the only thing he had eaten being the sad microwaved meal preps approved by Kim, when Charles asked beside him, curious and full of interest. 

The question, as harmless and good-natured as it was, made the Australian boy falter. 

“It’s good. Nice view, friendly people… yeah, it’s good.” It’s lonely. It didn't feel like home. It made him miss Melbourne so much that his chest ached with an empty sadness whenever his mother called. But he didn’t dare talk about that. Concealed it because Max and Charles didn’t need to hear about his sob story of feeling lonely in one of the most extravagant countries in the world. To be able to live here was a privilege in itself, so who was he to complain?

“But nothing beats the feeling of being at home, right?” Max’s face softened as he asked the question, because Oscar didn’t have to say it out loud for Max to know what he was feeling. Similar to Oscar, he liked Monaco, but he loved the Netherlands more than he would ever love any other place in the world. 

For a moment, there was nothing but Oscar’s stunned silence as he wondered why Max had managed to know exactly what he was feeling yet again. Either he had mind-reading abilities, or he was just too good at reading people - at reading Oscar. 

”Yeah…” he began, and it’s difficult to admit to both them and himself that while Monaco had been nothing but kind to him, he missed home. He missed the sun and the opposite seasons and the freaking kangaroos that outnumbered the people. He missed his mother's home-cooked meals and the sound of rain hitting against his childhood room window as he lay in bed playing on his Game Boy. He missed it the same way he had missed home when he was 14 and all by himself in the UK. “Nothing beats home, indeed.”

It took Oscar by surprise when Charles reached over to place his hand over his, just for a second, giving it a quick, reassuring tap. “No need to worry, Oscar, I’ll make it my mission to help you get settled in and comfortable around here. Make your time in Monaco as enjoyable as possible until the next time you fly back to Australia.” 

And that, well, Oscar had no idea what to say to that. 

It had probably been one of the sweetest things someone had said to him in a very, very long time. The feeling tugging at his heartstrings upon hearing his words was unfathomable, strange. For Charles to not only acknowledge his homesickness that Oscar had truthfully felt silly to admit out loud, but to be willing to go out of his way to help him settle in when he had no obligation to do so, touched him.

“I - Thank you, Charles,” he said solemnly, thanking him because he had no idea what else to say - couldn’t put the chaos of emotions within him into words even if he had tried. The boy next to him simply smiled, and somehow that was enough. No words, no anything, just a silent smile, and then the conversation resumed as usual - easy and light.

“Did you always dream of being an F1 driver, Oscar?” Max asked in between sips of his coffee, and he was gazing into Oscar’s eyes as if he genuinely wanted to know about his answer. It had Oscar remembering how he thought this was mere rehearsed politeness and idle chatter posed perfectly for the camera during that driver’s parade in Azerbaijan, and he wondered how he could ever be so foolish - scolded himself for doubting the Dutch driver when there wasn’t a second where Max had been ingenuine to him.

“Yes. I always kinda knew that racing was where I’m meant to be,” he answered, a nostalgic look on his face as he thought about the posters of Senna and Schumacher he had on his wall, the promise he made to himself to become one of the greatest racing drivers out there. 

“What other dreams did you have as a kid?” asked Charles, taking a bite of his food. “For me, personally, I had always wanted to start my own piano brand, become the next Steinway & Sons or something,” he added with a slight bashful smile. 

“Cats. Lots of cats. Wanted to get a full house of them, adopt one of every breed, and I’d get the Guinness world record for owning the most cats in the world.” Max’s answer punched a laugh out of both other drivers, and it didn’t take long before he was laughing along with them. Because, as ridiculous as it had sounded, it was the truth - a record-breaking cat kingdom was little Max’s dream. 

“I wanted to buy a house.” 

The words fell from Oscar’s lips before he even noticed it, and he immediately froze up because he had never meant to say that to them, never even thought about that childish little dream of his ever since he had grown out of the juicebox and storybooks days of his life. It was so long ago that he barely even remembered it anymore - at least, he had convinced himself of that - until a simple question about childhood dreams and it all came flooding right back.

He wished that he could take it back, spare them the boredom of the unimportant story, but then Max and Charles were watching him with such a fond look in their eyes, patient and waiting. And just like that night in Azerbaijan, Oscar couldn’t seem to hold back - didn’t want to hold back.

He was quiet for a while, struggling to find the right words to say, and then with a deep shaky inhale, he continued, “Ever since I was a kid - I don’t know why - I had always dreamt of… buying a house. It was dark green and had turquoise blue windows, and I would… get married and live there with my family. People would pass by and make fun of the ridiculous color combination of the exterior, but I wouldn’t mind because it was home. It was the happiest place on Earth.”

A self-deprecating part of Oscar’s mind had expected them to laugh at his confession, or maybe nod at his response and brush him off with a “oh, that’s… nice” and an awkward smile. Because it was so trivial and inconsequential - this dream of buying a house with green walls and blue windows - and he had learned to believe that any dreams unrelated to racing were dreams not worth wasting time to think about. 

So he buried that dream and locked it away, not allowing himself to think about that damned house because he had more important things to focus on like the racing career his parents had sacrificed everything for. Until the memory of that long-forgotten dream came crashing right back, and Oscar realised that a small part of him, even after all these years, still dreamt about buying that house and having a home.

“Why dark green and turquoise blue?” Max asked softly, and it knocked the air right out of Oscar’s chest and filled him with something warm and fuzzy. His face was void of any judgment or taunt, just genuine curiosity as if the color of Oscar’s imaginary home was something personally important to him. Maybe it was. Oscar didn’t know.

“I don’t know - they’re not even my favourite colors,” he laughed, ruminating on the oddly specific color choices he had decided on when he was five. Dark green and turquoise blue - quite an atrocious color combination now that Oscar thought about it - but it was the first real dream he had as a kid, and something about it would always stick with him. “It just… feels right, I guess.”

Oscar rushed to take a sip of his glass of sparkling water, suddenly aware of how personal and intimate the moment had gotten with their discussion of forgotten childhood dreams of making pianos, adopting cats, and buying a house. It was supposed to be a casual lunch with casual conversations and casual banter, and yet it had felt so right, so easy, for him to get vulnerable and talk about things he would never have talked to anyone else about.

“Well, I think it would be a very beautiful house, Oscar,” said Charles as he finished the last bite of his food, nodding his head approvingly as if he still couldn’t believe how good this restaurant was. Oscar smiled - he had already lost count of how many times he had smiled today - and he nodded along with him. 

Yes, it would be a very beautiful house indeed.

Notes:

oh how i love seeing oscar happy