watch the world burn

by somebigirl

Summary:

Oscar Piastri has always hoped his soulmate would understand his job, the traveling and all the energy it takes.

Thank god Max Verstappen understands.

Notes:

omg tried to post this last night then ao3 went down :(

 

alas, here’s another soulmate au!!

 

p.s. if anyone has any other ideas or prompts they want me to write pls send them my way!!

watch the world burn.

 

Those are the words that have been scrawled across Oscar’s chest since he turned 18. Words that Oscar, as a hopeless romantic, has been analysing every day since they appeared.

 

At first Oscar thought they might have some symbolic meaning, that maybe he was going to be a force of nature, someone to be reckoned with.

 

watch the world burn.

 

Maybe they were meant literally. Maybe one day he was going to become some sort of monster — a pyromaniac, maybe — and would literally set the world on fire. No, that’s just stupid.

 

Oscar was never much of a fan of fire. It was too hot, too unpredictable, too messy. Flames licking up the side of wooden logs at the Christmas bonfire was about as much as he could tolerate.

 

But anyway, no matter how many times Oscar stared at the words across his chest, they never made any sense to him.

 

 

                 🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

In 2023, when Oscar first started in Formula 1 he almost totally forgot about the words written across his chest. Too engrossed in the racing and how he’s finally living his dream, being a Formula 1 driver. Well, part of his dream. He wants to be a World Champion too of course.

 

Though, he supposes, that’ll come eventually.

 

The words on his chest have faded from his mind with each passing race weekend. He only ever thinks about them when he’s forced to see his own naked chest in the mirror. He’s long since stopped trying to understand them.

 

Nobody else knows about the words. Oscar has seen Lando’s of course, the massive “mi amor” that’s dark against Lando’s forearm. His teammate, rather annoyingly, found his soulmate almost four years ago when both Lando and Carlos drove for McLaren together. Similarly, Pierre and Yuki realised almost immediately that they’re soulmates when they first found each other on the grid.

 

After Stroll’s crash in Singapore that year, the world found out his soulmate was none other than Fernando Alonso. It’s nice, Oscar supposes, that most of the drivers have soulmates that work in the same field as them. Must make it a lot easier to see each other, to keep each other in check.

 

That’s another thing, the emotions. Oscar has always thought himself to be calm and collected, a solid trait to have. And sure, it’s not like he’s totally incapable of human emotion, he feels so much all the time but it gets exhausting trying to keep it all to himself. Especially when it’s been proven that finding your soulmate is key to regulating emotions.

 

Lucky for some, Oscar thinks.

 

 

                 🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

Winter break before the 2024 season hits Oscar hard. He heads back home to Melbourne, one of the few times in the year that he can actually see his family. The flight is long, it always is, but Oscar is used to it by now. He’s used to the feeling of being an outsider when he steps onto the tarmac, when he gets in the cab, when he arrives at his parent’s house.

 

Hattie greets him when he knocks on the door. She’s excited to see him, obviously. Almost knocks him over when she gives him a hug before actually letting him in the house. His mum is out in the backyard and Oscar has never been happier to see her. 2023 was a lacklustre season for Mclaren and so heading back home to his family feels a lot like relief for Oscar.

 

It’s not until halfway through the holidays that Oscar feels off. His parents ask about it, his sisters giving him concerned looks every time he enters a room but he brushes them all off with a forced smile.

 

He’s fine. He’s totally fine. The burning in his chest is nothing.

 

The utter agony that starts the next day however, is not fine. The words across his chest are almost a blinding white when he takes a peak at them in the bathroom mirror. The sink is cold under his hands as he grips it tightly, knuckles whitening as pain laces through his body. Fear grips the edges of Oscar’s mind as he stumbles out of the bathroom a few minutes later, his chest still burning as he claws at it through his t-shirt. He hears voices as he rushes to his bedroom, his mum maybe, one of his sisters. He doesn’t care, can’t hear what they’re saying anyway. The pain is like a vice, the only thing that he can see is pain, hear is pain, feel is pain.

 

He collapses on his bed as soon as he’s in his room with the door locked. He tries the breathing techniques his mum taught him when he was younger. He tries, for what feels like hours, to breathe through the pain but before he knows it the pain increases and Oscar loses consciousness.

 

 

 

Two days later, Oscar wakes to the sun shining through his window. The house is quiet as he pads downstairs, still in the same clothes he wore days ago, the front of his white shirt stained with blood. There’s a note on the fridge door that catches his eye when he walks in.

 

“Oscar, we’re all away out for the day to the markets. Don’t worry, we’ll be back before dinner. Pop your shirt in the laundry basket and I’ll sort it when I get home. There’s a book in the library that might be of use to you.

Lots of love, Mom xx”

 

Oscar blinks at the note before rereading it twice more. His mom obviously has some idea of what happened to him. He’s been asleep for two days, for fucks sake.

 

He sighs before tearing off his blood-stained shirt and putting it in the laundry basket. Good thing his mum knows how to get blood out of clothes then.

 

His phone rings just as he pulls a clean shirt over his head, arms reaching out to grab his phone off the bed.

 

Mark Webber

 

“Hi Mark.” Oscar says into the speaker, heading out of his room as he does.

 

“Oscar, hey mate. How you doing?”

 

Oscar tenses at the question, “I’m fine.”

 

The ridiculously loud sigh from the other end of the call lets Oscar know that Mark obviously doesn’t believe him. When does he ever though, really? Mark is the most overbearing parent that Oscar never had.

 

“Are you sure? Nicole didn’t seem too convinced when she called me at 3am last night because you still hadn’t woken up.”

 

Shit. Oscar didn’t even think about how his mum must’ve felt when he passed out. She must’ve thought he was dead, lying in his bed unconscious for days would probably force those thoughts to pass through her mind. He swallows harshly before he answers, “Yeah all good. Don’t know what happened but i’m fine now.”

 

There’s silence on the other end of the call before Mark reassures him that he’ll be okay and that apparently passing out from the pain his soulmate tattoo is capable of, is entirely normal. Well, brilliant. Oscar bristles at Mark’s tone before he says his goodbyes and hangs up. He’s come to a stop before the library door. It’s more like an office really but his mum had always loved reading and had declared it the library before his dad could even get a word in. Thus, it’s their library.

 

The door swings open with a bit more force than Oscar really meant. It’s cold when he steps inside, the open window blowing a breeze through the room. The walls are covered from floor to ceiling in bookshelves, all of them filled to the brim with books and statues, bits and bobs his parents have picked up over the years travelling to all of his international karting races. It takes Oscar well over an hour to find the book his mum must’ve been talking about.

 

The Guide to Soulmate Tattoos.

By a soulmate, for the soulmates.

 

It’s by far the biggest book Oscar has ever even attempted to read. Thick and heavy in his hands as he pulls it from the shelf and settles into the sofa with it.

 

Index

 

Introduction to Soulmates…… see page 1.

Activation Ages……see page 13.

Burning Sensations……see page 20.

Broken Bonds……see page 37.

Colour Changes……see page 50.

Death of a Soulmate……see page 60.

Disappearance of Ink……see page 92.

Grief Responses……see page 101.

Historical Origins……see page 111.

Pain……see page 170.

Prophecy & Myths……see page 229.

Rejection & Removal……see page 258.

Unmarked Individuals…see page 299.

 

 

Oscar immediately flicks to page 170. The words all blur across the page as a flicker of pain surges through his chest again.

 

The paper smells like dust and eucalyptus oil. The font is small, clinical, completely at odds with the way Oscar’s skin still feels like it’s been branded by something divine and deeply inconvenient.

 

Pain associated with soulmate markings varies in intensity. Mild warmth is common during proximity to one’s soulmate. Severe burning, loss of consciousness, or bleeding from the inscription site typically indicates one of the following:

1.    Initial Bond Ignition.

2. Acute Emotional Distress experienced by the soulmate.

3. Physical Trauma experienced by the soulmate.

4. Imminent Death.

 

Oscar’s stomach drops. He rereads number four three times.

 

Imminent death.

 

The words on his chest flare, just slightly, like they resent being scrutinised.

 

His hand presses flat against the ink. It’s no longer blinding white, just a raw red, angry and raised like fresh scar tissue. The letters look almost molten.

 

He flips back a few pages, fingers shaking despite himself.

 

Bond Ignition occurs when both soulmates become aware of one another on a soul level. This may or may not coincide with first physical meeting. Distance is irrelevant. Emotional intensity is key.

 

Oscar’s mind scrolls through the past week. Melbourne had been quiet. Beaches. Coffee. His sisters arguing over something insignificant. Nothing that felt like ignition. Nothing that felt like—

 

His chest seizes again.

 

Not as violently as before. Just a sharp, hot pulse that forces the air from his lungs.

 

Somewhere in the world, something is happening. Somewhere in the world, someone is hurting, or burning.

 

Oscar fumbles for his phone, heart climbing into his throat. Formula 1 news is muscle memory at this point. His thumb opens Twitter. Instagram. Autosport.

 

Nothing.

 

No major crashes. No dramatic headlines. It’s winter break. The grid is scattered to different corners of the planet, pretending to rest.

 

Oscar forces himself to keep reading.

 

Because the alternative is sitting there in the half light of his parents’ library with his hand clamped over his chest, imagining some faceless stranger bleeding out on the other side of the planet.

 

Page 172.

 

Severe manifestations are most frequently recorded during periods of heightened psychological distress in the soulmate. Reports include racing pulse, phantom injuries, mirrored bruising, insomnia, nausea, and intrusive emotional bleed through.

 

Oscar swallows.

 

Mirrored bruising.

 

He glances down at his sternum again. The skin is inflamed around the words, the letters darkening and paling in faint, erratic pulses like a dying ember catching oxygen.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

He hates how dramatic it sounds.

 

In rare cases, subjects have reported full sensory overlap lasting up to forty eight hours during Bond Ignition. This may include experiencing the soulmate’s fear response, adrenaline spikes, or physical pain as if it were one’s own. Loss of consciousness is not uncommon.

 

Forty eight hours.

 

Oscar had been out for two days.

 

His stomach tightens.

 

He thinks about the way the pain had climbed him like barbed wire. The way it had rooted behind his ribs and pulled until he blacked out. That had not been mild warmth, that had been catastrophic.

 

His thumb traces the margin of the page.

 

Adrenaline spikes.

 

He flips back to the index and finds Emotional Bleed Through. Page 184.

 

His pulse is louder now. Not fast, just heavy.

 

Bleed through may occur before identification. It is frequently mistaken for anxiety or mood instability. Common descriptors include “foreign anger,” “borrowed grief,” and “unearned rage.”

 

Oscar exhales slowly.

 

Foreign anger.

 

He thinks about the last few months of 2023. The way certain race weekends had left him vibrating long after he’d stepped out of the car. The press pen lights too bright. The questions too sharp. The feeling like something inside him was pacing.

 

He had blamed pressure. Rookie season. Expectations.

 

He turns the page.

 

Individuals bonded to high risk professions report stronger sympathetic responses. Soldiers, surgeons, first responders, competitive athletes.

 

His lips press thin, of course. He wants to laugh but it comes out hollow.

 

So his soulmate is what? A firefighter, a war correspondent, a stuntman. Or a racing driver.

 

The thought lands and lingers.

 

He stares at it like it’s something fragile. He has always hoped, selfishly.

 

He doesn’t need someone who understands the mechanics. He knows the mechanics. He could explain dirty air and tyre deg in his sleep, but he needs someone who understands the cost. The travel. The scrutiny. The way a tenth of a second can feel like a personal failure. The way you are either exceptional or disposable.

 

He wants someone who won’t ask him to choose between love and the grid.

 

He keeps reading.

 

Page 190.

 

Warning Signs of Acute Trauma Transmission:

• Sudden, stabbing pain at inscription site.

• Heat radiating from marking.

• Temporary vision disturbances.

• Syncope.

• Bleeding from ink lines.

 

Oscar closes his eyes briefly. He remembers the blood on his shirt. He had thought he’d scratched himself in panic. He opens them again and the book does not soften the blow.

 

If physical trauma is occurring, medical intervention for the soulmate may reduce transmission intensity. There is no documented case of one soulmate dying without the other experiencing catastrophic physiological consequences.

 

Catastrophic.

 

The word sits in his throat. He flips to Death of a Soulmate. Page 60. His fingers hesitate before turning.

 

He tells himself it’s practical. Information is control. Control is survival.

 

If one soulmate dies prior to bond stabilisation, the surviving marked individual may experience:

 

• Permanent ink scarring.

• Chronic pain at inscription site.

• Emotional dysregulation.

• In rare cases, cardiac failure within seventy two hours.

 

Oscar’s jaw tightens.

 

Cardiac failure.

 

His heart thuds, steady but suddenly noticeable. He presses his palm against his chest again as if to reassure it.

 

“I’m not dying,” he mutters quietly to the empty room.

 

The house creaks in response, settling in the afternoon heat. He flips further.

 

Page 74.

 

Stabilised bonds typically result in decreased emotional volatility. Hormonal regulation improves. Sleep cycles normalise. Subjects report a sense of alignment.

 

Alignment.

 

He almost smiles at that.

 

He has never felt aligned in his life.

 

He has felt focused, driven, controlled, but alignment sounds different. Softer. Like something sliding into place.

 

He thinks about Lando.

 

Lando had been a nightmare of mood swings in their first months as teammates. Brilliant. Hilarious. Chaotic.

 

Then Carlos had walked into the paddock one weekend in 2020 with mi amor inked along his forearm and Lando had gone very quiet.

 

Not sad quiet, more settled.

 

Oscar remembers watching them in the McLaren garage that year during his reserve role. The way Lando would glance toward Carlos before interviews. The way Carlos would tilt his head just slightly, grounding him without touching.

 

It had been subtle, but it had been real.

 

Pierre and Yuki had been less subtle. They’d nearly combusted in the AlphaTauri garage the week they realised.

 

The grid had known before they’d even confirmed it. Soulmates have a gravity to them.

 

Oscar has always wondered what his would feel like.

 

He flips to Unmarked Individuals. Page 299.

 

A small percentage of the population will never develop soulmate inscriptions. This is not considered a defect. Many unmarked individuals form healthy attachments independent of soul bonds.

 

He nods once. He is not unmarked, unfortunately.

 

He looks down again at the words. They look darker now. Not white. Not blinding. Just there. Like they’re waiting.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

He traces the W carefully.

 

The letters are sharp, almost jagged. No soft script. No delicate declaration like mi amor.

 

His soulmate’s handwriting is violent.

 

He laughs once under his breath.

 

“That’s reassuring.”

 

He flips to Prophecy & Myths. Page 229.

 

Historically, inscriptions were believed to be warnings rather than identifiers. Some cultures interpreted aggressive phrasing as symbolic rather than literal.

 

Symbolic.

 

He leans forward.

 

In several medieval texts, phrases involving fire or destruction were linked to individuals destined to challenge existing structures. “Burn” was often used to denote transformation, not annihilation.

 

Transformation.

 

He considers that.

 

Maybe he is not meant to torch cities.

 

Maybe he is meant to dismantle something.

 

He thinks about Formula 1.

 

About hierarchies. Politics. Favouritism. About how young drivers are either moulded or discarded.

 

Maybe his soulmate is someone who wants to burn the old guard down.

 

Maybe they are reckless. Impulsive. Furious at the world.

 

Maybe they are everything Oscar is not.

 

His chest tingles faintly. Not pain, just warmth.

 

He freezes.

 

The warmth spreads slowly across the words, not sharp like before. Not unbearable. Just present.

 

His breathing shallows. He waits. It fades after a few seconds. He exhales.

 

“Okay,” he whispers.

 

Somewhere in the world, the person tied to him is awake.

 

He imagines them pacing, arguing, training.

 

He thinks about the grid again. Winter break.

 

Max is in Monaco, probably, training like a machine. Charles at home. Lando in Dubai. Carlos back in Madrid. Pierre in Paris. Yuki in Japan.

 

He shuts the thought down immediately.

It could be anyone. Statistically, it probably isn’t a driver.

 

He tells himself not to romanticise, but his mind betrays him anyway.

 

He pictures someone climbing out of a cockpit. Helmet off, jaw tight, fire in their eyes.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

It sounds like something a champion would carry, or a movie villain. He doesn’t know which is worse.

 

He reads further.

 

Page 203.

 

Emotional bleed through may intensify during competitive environments. Increased adrenaline in one party may trigger sympathetic response in the other.

 

Competitive environments.

 

His throat tightens.

 

Pre season testing is in a few weeks. If his soulmate is a driver, he will know. He will feel it.

 

The thought terrifies him, and thrills him.

 

He closes the book slowly, the weight of it settling in his lap.

 

The room feels smaller now.

 

He stands and walks to the window. The Australian sun is blinding across the garden. His mum’s lemon tree glows almost fluorescent in the heat.

 

Somewhere else, maybe in winter grey Europe, someone is breathing the same air in a different season.

 

The words are quiet now. Dormant, even.

 

Waiting.

 

He doesn’t know who they belong to.

 

He doesn’t know if that person is kind or cruel or reckless or careful.

 

He doesn’t know if they will understand why he disappears to Bahrain for weeks. Why he lives out of a suitcase. Why he measures his life in lap times.

 

He hopes they do.

 

He hopes they are in this world.

 

In his world.

 

Because the idea of loving someone who asks him to step away from the grid feels worse than the pain did.

 

He leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

 

“Please,” he whispers, not sure who he’s addressing. Fate. The universe. The ink.

 

Let it be someone who understands.

 

Outside, a car engine revs faintly in the distance on a suburban street.

 

His chest warms again.

 

Not painful.

 

Not violent.

 

Just a low, steady heat.

 

Like something idling.

 

And somewhere, oceans away, someone with fire written into their bones is breathing a little harder too.

 

    

                                       🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

2024 passes without event. The year flys by in a way Oscar wasn’t aware of, like it didn’t really happen. Before he realises it, winter break has come and gone again and the 2025 season looms on the horizon.

 

Shanghai in spring feels electric, like the air itself has decided to vibrate.

 

The track curls through the industrial haze like a dragon waking up, and when the chequered flag falls at the end of fifty six laps, Oscar doesn’t immediately process that he’s won.

 

He hears it before he understands it.

 

“P1, Oscar. That’s P1. You are a race winner in China.”

 

The radio crackles and then explodes with cheers.

 

His hands tighten around the steering wheel. He exhales once, sharp and disbelieving.

 

“Copy,” he says, because that is what he says when he does not trust his voice.

 

The cool down lap feels unreal. The car beneath him hums, obedient and triumphant. Fireworks already bloom somewhere beyond the main straight, red and gold scattering across the smoggy sky.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

The thought flickers through his mind and he almost laughs inside his helmet.

 

Maybe this is what it means. Not destruction. Just standing at the top while everything else crackles around you.

 

When he climbs out of the car in parc fermé, the noise hits him fully. Cameras. Shouting. Engineers vaulting the barrier.

 

He barely has time to pull his helmet off before arms wrap around him.

 

Zak is shouting something incoherent. His race engineer’s voice is thick. Mechanics are slapping his back hard enough to bruise.

 

He grins properly then. Wide. Unfiltered.

 

This is what he has wanted since he was a child dragging a kart through Australian dust.

 

Podium.

 

The stairs feel steeper than usual. His legs are still buzzing with adrenaline. Lando is already there, flushed and smiling in second, clapping him on the shoulder as he steps up to the top step.

 

“Took you long enough,” Lando says, leaning close so only Oscar can hear.

 

Oscar snorts. “Shut up.”

 

On the other side, Max stands in third, composed, sharp eyed. The Red Bull suit fits him like armour.

 

They don’t talk much, Max and Oscar. Not really. There’s no animosity. Just orbit. Separate planets that occasionally align on a podium and then drift apart again.

 

Max catches his eye briefly. Gives him a nod.

 

“Good race,” he says simply.

 

“Thanks,” Oscar replies.

 

Max’s mouth tilts faintly. “Finally decided to make it interesting this year.”

 

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh.

 

The anthems begin.

 

He stares out at the sea of people. Red flags. Smoke. The distant skyline rising like something futuristic and indifferent.

 

When the Australian anthem plays, his throat tightens. He keeps his face steady.

 

As the champagne sprays, cold and chaotic, he feels it.

 

A tingling.

 

It starts at the base of his throat and spreads down across his chest, right over the ink.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

The words prickle under his race suit like static electricity.

 

He stiffens instinctively.

 

Lando blasts him in the face with champagne and the moment fractures into laughter and sticky chaos.

 

Oscar blinks, wiping his eyes.

 

It’s just adrenaline, he tells himself. You just won a race, of course your body feels like it’s on fire.

 

Still, when he glances sideways, he catches Max watching him. Not openly, just a flicker of something assessing, then it’s gone.

 

 

Later that night Shanghai glows neon.

 

Lando refuses to let him stay in.

 

“You can’t win and then go to bed at nine,” Lando insists, already half changed and grinning like a menace. “It’s illegal. I checked.”

 

So they end up in some rooftop bar that looks like it’s been built inside a constellation. Glass walls. City lights spilling in every direction. Music pulsing low and expensive.

 

Oscar doesn’t usually drink much. Control is his comfort zone. Tonight, control feels optional.

 

He lets Lando order.

 

Tequila arrives first.

 

“To P1,” Lando declares, raising his glass.

 

“To P1,” Oscar echoes.

 

The burn down his throat is sharp and immediate. He coughs. Lando laughs.

 

“You’re tragic.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

They drink more.

 

The city blurs slightly at the edges.

 

They talk about the race at first. The overtake into Turn 14. The tyre management gamble. The radio messages that nearly gave Oscar a heart attack.

 

But alcohol loosens things that Oscar normally keeps zipped up tight.

 

By the fourth drink, the conversation shifts.

 

It always does eventually.

 

Soulmates are the grid’s favourite topic when the season is young and hope is still cheap. Lando leans back in his chair, staring at the skyline.

 

“You felt it yet?” he asks casually.

 

Oscar pretends not to know what he means. “Felt what?”

 

Lando snorts. “Don’t.”

 

Oscar traces the rim of his glass.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly.

 

Lando’s gaze sharpens. “Yeah?”

 

“Winter 2023.” He swallows. “It was bad.”

 

Lando’s expression softens instantly.

 

“How bad?”

 

“I passed out.”

 

Lando straightens. “What?”

 

“For two days.”

 

“Jesus, Osc.”

 

Oscar shrugs, too loose. “Apparently that’s normal.”

 

“It’s not,” Lando mutters. “Well. It is, but it’s not.”

 

They sit with that for a moment. The music shifts to something heavier. The bass vibrates through the table.

 

“I just,” Oscar starts, then stops.

 

He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t tell people what goes on. Lando waits for an answer anyway.

 

“I’m scared,” Oscar says finally.

 

Lando’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Of what?”

 

“That I’ll never find them.”

 

The words feel stupid the second they leave his mouth but they’re true.

 

“What if they’re not in this world?” Oscar continues, voice low. “What if they hate racing. What if they want normal. What if they’re—”

 

He gestures vaguely, drunk and frustrated.

 

“—someone who doesn’t get it.”

 

Lando studies him carefully, his eyes boring into Oscar’s like he can see right through him. “You think I got lucky.”

 

Oscar huffs. “You did.”

 

Lando smiles faintly. “Yeah. I did.”

 

He leans forward, elbows on the table.

 

“But you won’t not find them.”

 

“That’s not reassuring.”

 

“You’re not unmarked.”

 

“That’s also not reassuring.”

 

Lando rolls his eyes. “You’re dramatic when you drink.”

 

Oscar considers that. “Maybe.”

 

Lando’s voice softens again. “When it happens, it won’t feel like chasing. It’ll feel like landing.”

 

Oscar stares at him.

 

Landing.

 

He thinks about today. About the podium. About that weird, electric tingle across his chest. About the way something inside him had felt… aware.

 

“You’ll know,” Lando says quietly. “Trust me.”

 

Oscar nods, because arguing feels exhausting.

 

They drink more, too much really.

 

By the time they stumble back into the hotel, Oscar’s head is heavy and warm and spinning slightly.

 

Lando disappears down his corridor with a lazy salute.

 

“Text me if you die,” he calls.

 

“Shut up,” Oscar replies, fumbling with his keycard.

 

His room is dark and silent when he steps inside. The city glows through the curtains in fractured neon lines.

 

He kicks his shoes off somewhere near the door and collapses onto the bed without turning the lights on.

 

The room tilts gently.

 

He laughs once into the pillow.

 

Race winner. Soulmate-less.

 

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Slowly, clumsily, he pulls his shirt off. The air is cool against his skin.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

The words are darker than usual tonight, not inflamed, just vivid. He traces them with unsteady fingers.

 

“When?” he murmurs to the empty room.

 

When do I meet you?

 

Are you here?

 

Are you watching?

 

His chest tingles again. Not sharp. Just a faint hum. He frowns slightly, drunk brain slow to process. He presses his palm flat over the ink.

 

It feels warm.

 

Like something alive beneath the surface. He closes his eyes. Somewhere in the same hotel, doors down corridors he hasn’t walked, another driver is probably lying awake too.

 

Another heartbeat, another set of words etched into skin.

 

Oscar exhales slowly.

 

“I hope you understand,” he whispers.

 

Understand the travel, and the pressure. The way winning feels like oxygen.

 

The warmth lingers a little longer tonight.

 

Oscar drifts off still wondering what kind of person carries fire in their bones.

 

And somewhere, not far away at all, something burns just a little brighter.

 

 

                                    🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

China settles into memory like heat trapped under skin.

 

After Shanghai there is no dramatic revelation, no cinematic lightning strike across Oscar’s chest, no sudden understanding of who carries the other half of his pulse. There are only races. Airports. Briefings. The quiet hum of routine returning like gravity.

 

Japan comes next, all precision and pink blossoms fighting against steel grandstands. Oscar finishes second there after a strategic gamble that almost works and almost ruins him in equal measure. He stands on another podium, champagne soaking into his hair, and waits for the strange tingling he felt in China.

 

It doesn’t come.

 

Instead there is only the steady thud of his own heart and the faint, familiar warmth beneath the ink. Not painful. Not urgent. Just present, like a pilot light that never quite goes out.

 

He tells himself that is normal.

 

The book had said proximity is not required, that emotional intensity is key.

 

He tries not to dissect every spike of adrenaline as proof of something else happening somewhere beyond his line of sight. He tells himself he is not that person, not someone who builds castles out of coincidence.

 

Bahrain is brutal and dry and ends in frustration. A pit stop error drops him out of contention and he feels anger coil low in his stomach in a way that is sharper than usual, almost metallic. When he strips out of his race suit later that night and catches sight of his chest in the mirror, the words look darker.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

They prickle faintly, a restless heat.

 

He stands there longer than necessary, studying them.

 

“Calm down,” he mutters, unsure whether he is speaking to himself or to the invisible thread tethered somewhere far away.

 

The warmth eases gradually, like something exhaling.

 

Miami is chaos wrapped in glitter. Celebrity faces, humid air, the marina glowing artificial blue. He wins again there after a wheel to wheel fight that leaves his hands shaking long after he climbs out of the car. Max finishes second that weekend, relentless and clinical as ever. They exchange the usual podium nods and polite words, orbiting each other with professional ease.

 

Oscar feels nothing unusual on the podium in Miami, only the intoxicating rush of victory and the heavy sweetness of champagne. Later that night, lying in his hotel room with the balcony doors open to the ocean air, there is a soft, almost curious sensation across his sternum. Not pain. More like fingertips pressing lightly against the other side of his skin.

 

He sits up in bed instinctively.

 

The room is empty.

 

The city hums beyond the glass.

 

The sensation lingers for a few seconds, then fades, leaving behind a quiet awareness that he is not entirely alone in his body.

 

He does not sleep well that night.

 

Monaco is home and not home all at once. The harbour glittering with yachts, the narrow streets vibrating with engines. He has memorised every bump in that circuit, every millimetre of tarmac that demands respect.

 

During qualifying he brushes the wall at Swimming Pool and the impact is minor but sharp. The car holds. The lap survives. He climbs out afterwards with adrenaline still flooding his veins, heart hammering hard enough to bruise.

 

In the privacy of the motorhome bathroom he lifts his fireproof top and checks his chest out of habit.

 

The words are flushed, raised slightly at the edges, heat radiating outward in a dull throb that does not match the scrape on his tyre.

 

He presses his palm over them.

 

The warmth spikes, almost responsive.

 

He swallows.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks under his breath before he can stop himself.

 

There is no answer, of course. Only the faint echo of his own pulse.

 

He wonders if somewhere else, someone else is standing in front of a mirror with their hand over matching ink.

 

He tries not to imagine who.

 

Spain, Canada, Austria blur into each other in a carousel of hospitality suites and debrief rooms. There are good weekends and messy ones. In Austria, a late race incident costs him a likely podium and he feels a surge of anger so fierce it surprises him. It is not his usual frustration, cool and contained. This is rawer, hotter, something that crackles along his ribs.

 

That night the pain is sharper.

 

Not winter sharp, not collapse to the floor and bleed through your shirt sharp, but enough to make him sit very still on the edge of his hotel bed and breathe carefully through it.

 

The ink burns in distinct pulses, like someone tapping insistently from the other side.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

He tries to separate what is his from what might not be.

 

He had been angry, yes. But this feels like more. This feels layered. Like another emotion braided through his own.

 

It lasts maybe five minutes before it ebbs.

 

He lies back slowly, staring at the ceiling.

 

“Who are you?” he whispers into the dark.

 

There is something almost terrifying about being tied to someone you have never met, about feeling their worst moments without context. He wonders what kind of life produces that kind of heat. What kind of person carries fire so close to the surface.

 

Silverstone is rain and redemption. He stands on the podium again, the British crowd deafening around Lando in particular, and for a fleeting second he feels an odd flicker beneath his skin. Not pain. Not warmth.

 

Recognition.

 

It is gone before he can properly examine it, swallowed by confetti and noise and the blur of interviews.

 

He does not talk to Max much that weekend beyond the usual paddock courtesies. A nod in the drivers’ parade. A brief exchange in the cooldown room where Max complains about tyre temperatures and Oscar counters with a quiet observation about track evolution. They exist parallel, occasionally intersecting, never colliding.

 

If there is anything humming beneath that surface, Oscar does not let himself see it.

 

By the time summer break arrives, he is exhausted in the way that only a relentless calendar can make you. The constant switching of time zones, the relentless scrutiny, the expectation that he will always be composed, always be sharp.

 

Monaco in August is almost quiet by comparison. The harbour still gleams, but the paddock is distant memory. He wakes without an alarm for the first time in months and lets the morning stretch slow and unhurried.

 

He swims. He runs along the coastline with music low in his ears.

 

He reads, actual physical books, sprawled on his balcony while the Mediterranean air curls warm around him.

 

The soulmark behaves.

 

There are flickers now and then. A gentle warmth in the evenings that feels less like warning and more like presence. Once, while he is lying on his back watching the sky fade from gold to indigo, the ink tingles so softly it almost feels affectionate.

 

He smiles to himself, embarrassed by the thought.

 

He has stopped fearing imminent death every time it stirs. The winter pain has not returned. Whatever ignition occurred, it has stabilised into something quieter.

 

Sometimes, late at night, he allows himself to imagine meeting them.

 

He imagines someone who understands the claustrophobia of a cockpit, the silence before lights out, the way your world narrows to five red dots and nothing else. He imagines someone who does not flinch when he disappears for three weeks at a time, who knows that ambition is not cruelty but necessity.

 

He tells himself he does not need them.

 

He tells himself he is fine as he is.

 

But when he lies in the dark and presses his fingers over the words, he cannot deny the small, persistent hope that they are closer than he thinks.

 

By the time August edges toward its end and the circus prepares to reconvene in the Netherlands, Oscar feels rested in a way that is almost unfamiliar. His body feels strong. His mind clear. The pilot light beneath his skin steady and controlled.

 

Zandvoort waits with its orange grandstands and sweeping banking, with Max’s home crowd ready to turn the coastline into a sea of fire.

 

Oscar packs his suitcase carefully, methodical as always.

 

As he pulls a fresh shirt over his head before leaving for the airport, the fabric brushes against his chest and the words prickle faintly, a subtle warning or perhaps anticipation.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

He presses his hand flat against them and breathes in slowly.

 

“Not today,” he murmurs, half amused, half uneasy.

 

Outside, Monaco glitters under the late summer sun.

 

Somewhere ahead, on a narrow strip of Dutch coastline, something is already starting to smoulder.

 

 

 

Zandvoort feels different before Oscar even steps into the paddock.

 

The air is saltier here, sharper, the North Sea wind cutting through the late summer warmth and whipping orange flags into a frenzy along the dunes. The circuit coils through sand and grass like it’s been carved out of stubborn earth, banking steep and unapologetic. It is Max’s race in a way that doesn’t need saying. The grandstands glow with his colour. The noise already hums even on media day, anticipation vibrating under everything.

 

Oscar steps out of the car in his team kit, sunglasses on, expression neutral. He has learned how to wear neutrality like armour. World Drivers’ Championship leader. The words follow him everywhere now, stitched into headlines and questions and the way people look at him in corridors.

 

Max is second. Lando third. The margins are tight enough that every weekend feels like it could tilt the axis of the season.

 

Media day is relentless. Cameras, microphones, the polite repetition of answers that have already been given in three different languages. Oscar moves through it with the same efficiency he brings to qualifying laps. Smile. Answer. Deflect. Repeat.

 

By the time he reaches the FIA press conference room that afternoon, he feels wound tight but controlled.

 

The three of them sit in a row behind the long desk. Oscar in the middle as championship leader, Max on one side, Lando on the other. The backdrop is a wall of sponsor logos and bright orange accents. Flashbulbs go off in rapid bursts as they settle into their seats.

 

Oscar can feel the crowd through the walls. The low, constant murmur of Dutch fans outside.

 

The moderator runs through the formalities and then the questions begin.

 

They start predictable.

 

“Oscar, you’re leading the championship coming into Max’s home race. How do you approach this weekend?”

 

He folds his hands lightly on the desk.

 

“The same as any other,” he says evenly. “The points don’t change because of location. It’s a strong circuit for Red Bull historically, so we know it’ll be tight, but the approach is the same. Maximise what we have.”

 

Max glances sideways at that, expression unreadable but faintly amused.

 

Lando fields a question about momentum, about whether the three of them feel like this season is becoming a three way fight. He shrugs slightly.

 

“It already is,” Lando says. “Has been for a while.”

 

There’s laughter in the room.

 

“Max, does leading at Zandvoort mean more given Oscar’s current position?”

 

Max leans back slightly in his chair, fingers laced together.

 

“It’s always special to race at home,” he says. “But at the end of the day it’s twenty five points. The championship is long.”

 

Oscar watches him as he speaks.

 

He has always thought Max is clearest when he talks about racing itself. No fluff. No theatrics. Just stripped back intent.

 

Another question.

 

“Oscar, do you feel extra pressure knowing the crowd will largely be against you this weekend?”

 

He considers it briefly.

 

“I don’t think it’s against me,” he replies. “They’re here to support Max. That’s fair enough. If anything, it’s good for the sport to have that atmosphere.”

 

Max nods slightly at that, almost imperceptible approval.

 

As the conference stretches on, the questions become more technical. Tyre degradation on the banking. Wind direction. The new upgrades both teams have brought.

 

Max pauses midway through an answer about rear stability in high speed corners, searching for a word.

 

“It’s about finding that… balance where the rear doesn’t… you know…”

 

“Rotate too aggressively on entry,” Oscar says without thinking.

 

The words leave his mouth naturally, like he’s finishing his own sentence. There is a half second of silence before Max turns his head slowly.

 

“That’s what I was going to say,” he replies, tone neutral but eyes sharper now.

 

Oscar blinks, surprised at himself. “Sorry.”

 

Max shakes his head once. “It’s fine.”

 

The moderator moves on before the moment can linger, but it happens again.

 

A question about managing traffic in qualifying.

 

Max starts, “You need to anticipate where the car in front is going to—”

 

“Back up the pack,” Oscar says quietly.

 

Max’s mouth curves faintly. “Yeah.”

 

Lando looks between them with open amusement. “You two rehearsed this or what?”

 

Oscar forces a small laugh. “No.”

 

He tells himself it’s obvious. They drive similar cars. They analyse the same data. The same patterns. Of course their conclusions overlap.

 

Still, there is something oddly seamless about it, not competitive, not argumentative. Aligned.

 

He shifts slightly in his chair.

 

Another journalist.

 

“Max, do you think Oscar has changed as a driver this season compared to last year?”

 

Max pauses, thoughtful. He tilts his head slightly, gaze unfocused for a second.

 

“He’s more—”

 

“Patient,” Oscar says at the same time Max says, “Patient.”

 

Their voices overlap perfectly.

 

The room reacts this time. A ripple of laughter. Raised eyebrows. Cameras refocusing.

 

Max exhales a short breath that might be a laugh. “Yeah, exactly that.”

 

Oscar feels heat creep up his neck.

 

It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like something electric snapping into place every time their thoughts align.

 

He shifts his attention to Lando, who is watching him with narrowed eyes that say he has noticed something.

 

The questions keep coming.

 

Strategy. Mind games. Who has the psychological edge.

 

Max leans forward slightly when he answers those, forearms on the desk.

 

“It’s not about psychology,” he says. “It’s about execution. If you execute properly, you don’t need to—”

 

“Overcomplicate it,” Oscar finishes.

 

Max’s jaw tightens subtly.

 

The moderator blinks. “You two share a brain today?”

 

Lando grins. “It’s terrifying, actually.”

 

Oscar forces himself to stay composed, but there is a strange buzzing under his skin now. Not pain. Not exactly.

 

Awareness.

 

He can feel when Max is about to speak before he does. There’s a shift in posture. A tightening of his fingers. A slight inhale.

 

It feels less like prediction and more like instinct.

 

By the time the conference stretches past forty minutes, even the journalists seem to sense the odd synchronicity. Questions are directed at both of them more deliberately, as if trying to test it.

 

“Max, what’s the biggest weakness of the current car?”

 

Max opens his mouth.

Oscar already knows the answer forming.

 

“Kerb compliance,” they say simultaneously.

 

This time even Max looks unsettled.

 

He sits back slowly.

 

The moderator finally calls time after nearly an hour.

 

Chairs scrape. Microphones click off. The room dissolves into chatter.

 

Oscar exhales, unaware until now that he has been holding his breath.

 

As they stand, Max rolls his shoulder once, subtle but strained.

 

“You okay?” Lando asks casually.

 

“Yeah,” Max replies, but the word is clipped.

 

They begin to step away from the desk when Max suddenly inhales sharply. His hand comes up instinctively to clutch his right shoulder, fingers digging in as if something has seized.

 

The movement is abrupt enough that several cameras swing back toward him.

 

“You alright?” someone calls.

 

Max’s jaw clenches. “Fine.”

 

But he is not fine. The muscle in his neck is taut, his posture rigid.

 

Oscar feels it before he understands it.

 

A burst.

 

White hot and sudden across his chest.

 

He sucks in a breath, hand flying to his sternum. The words flare under his shirt like they’ve been branded again.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

The pain is sharp, concentrated, blooming outward in a vicious pulse that steals the air from his lungs.

 

It lasts maybe ten seconds, maybe less, but it is enough.

 

He presses his palm flat against his chest, pretending to adjust his shirt, forcing his face neutral as the pain peaks and then begins to ebb.

 

Across from him, Max straightens slowly, rolling his shoulder again as if testing it.

 

“Just a twinge,” Max mutters, brushing off concerned glances from team personnel moving closer.

 

Oscar lowers his hand carefully.

 

His chest still hums faintly, residual heat radiating from the ink. There is no visible injury. No collision. No reason.

 

Their eyes meet briefly across the narrowing space between them.

 

For a fraction of a second, something flickers there. Recognition. Confusion. A mirror of the same question.

 

Then it’s gone.

 

Max nods once, curt, and turns toward the Red Bull side of the paddock, already surrounded by orange shirts and cameras.

 

Lando nudges Oscar lightly. “You alright? You went pale.”

 

“Fine,” Oscar says automatically.

 

“Long press conference,” Lando shrugs.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Coincidence.

 

It has to be.

 

Muscle spasms happen. Nerves pinch. Bodies do strange things under stress.

 

Oscar tells himself this as he walks back through the paddock, the North Sea wind cutting through the narrow corridors between motorhomes.

 

His chest is still warm.

 

Not catastrophic. Not winter level.

 

Just enough to remind him that somewhere, somehow, something shifted.

 

He presses his hand over the ink once more when no one is looking.

 

“Coincidence,” he repeats quietly to himself.

 

The dunes rustle in the wind beyond the circuit walls, orange flags snapping like small controlled fires against the grey sky.

 

 

The rest of Thursday passes in a blur of debriefs and data traces that loop across screens in endless telemetry lines. Oscar keeps his head down, keeps his answers measured, keeps his hands steady when they hover too close to the centre of his chest. He does not seek Max out in the paddock. He does not drift toward the Red Bull hospitality under the pretence of casual conversation. If Max notices the absence, he gives no sign of it.

 

Lando notices everything.

 

In the engineering room after second practice on Friday, Lando leans back in his chair and studies Oscar for a beat too long. “You and Verstappen sharing a brain yesterday,” he says lightly, eyes flicking to the mechanics around them before settling back on Oscar. “Bit weird.”

 

Oscar keeps his gaze on the screen. “We answered the same questions.”

 

“Yeah,” Lando replies. “Exactly.”

 

Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He scrolls through sector times instead, jaw set in that quiet way that means he will not elaborate. Lando huffs softly but lets it go.

 

Saturday arrives with low cloud and a restless wind that sweeps sand in faint sheets across the circuit. Zandvoort always feels alive, the banking steep enough to make the cars look like they’re climbing walls. The grandstands are already a wash of orange before qualifying begins.

 

Oscar finds rhythm early. The car feels planted through Turn 3, stable over the kerbs, responsive on entry. Each lap builds on the last, incremental and precise. Q3 narrows the world to silence and heartbeats and five perfect corners strung together.

 

When he crosses the line and sees P1 flash on his dash, something inside him steadies rather than explodes. Pole position. Clean. Controlled.

 

Lando slots into second, grinning when he climbs from the car. Max is third, half a tenth adrift, expression unreadable beneath the Dutch roar that follows him everywhere here. George lurks just behind in fourth, sharp and opportunistic as ever.

 

In parc fermé, Oscar and Max stand close enough that their shoulders almost brush. They exchange the usual words, polite and clipped.

 

“Good lap,” Max says.

 

“You too,” Oscar replies.

 

There is no mention of the press conference. No reference to the strange synchrony or the mirrored pain. It folds itself neatly into the growing pile of things left unsaid.

 

Sunday morning dawns grey and heavy. The sea air tastes metallic, rain threatening but not yet falling. Oscar goes through his pre race routine methodically. Headphones on. Minimal conversation. Hands flexing slowly as he visualises the start over and over again.

 

Pole is a gift and a burden all at once. Everything is his to lose.

 

The formation lap is clean. The grid settles. Five red lights illuminate above the track.

 

Oscar’s world narrows.

 

Lights out.

 

He launches well, holds the inside line into Turn 1, shuts the door on Lando decisively but fairly. Max stays tight behind them through the banking, the three of them separated by metres and championship tension.

 

The first stint is controlled aggression. Oscar manages the pace carefully, never quite stretching too far but never allowing Lando into DRS. Max hovers just behind, calculating. George keeps them honest in fourth.

 

Twenty laps in, the race feels settled into strategy rather than chaos.

 

Then the sky shifts.

 

It begins as a fine mist, barely visible against the grey backdrop. The engineers start muttering on the radio about radar cells moving in from the coast. Oscar feels the first proper drops hit his visor as he exits Turn 12.

 

“Light rain reported in Sector 2,” his engineer says calmly.

 

The track darkens in patches. Grip becomes suggestion rather than certainty.

 

Oscar adjusts instinctively, smoothing his inputs, braking earlier, trusting feel over numbers.

 

The pain hits before he can really register it. It detonates across his chest without warning, a white hot explosion centred directly over the words. Watch the world burn sears into him as if the ink has been set alight from the inside. His breath stutters mid corner. His vision narrows for a split second that feels dangerously long.

 

He grips the steering wheel harder, forcing himself to stay present.

 

“Focus,” he mutters to himself, barely audible beneath the engine’s scream.

 

The pain does not fade immediately. It pulses, vicious and insistent, radiating outward through his ribs and into his shoulders. Every bump in the track jars it sharper.

 

There is no contact. No incident around him. Lando remains glued to his gearbox. Max still shadows behind.

 

“Rain intensifying,” the radio says. “Box this lap for inters.”

 

Oscar nods, even though they cannot see him.

 

He dives into the pits cleanly, the stop precise despite the tremor trying to creep into his hands. As he exits on intermediates, the pain spikes again, so intense he has to bite down hard to keep from gasping.

 

Somewhere.

 

Something.

 

He does not have the luxury of figuring it out.

 

The track is treacherous now, the banking slick, spray obscuring visibility. Lando is still within reach. George has jumped Max in the pit sequence and now sits third, hunting.

 

Oscar drives through it.

 

Through the pain.

 

Through the rain.

 

Each lap is an act of will. He focuses on reference points. On throttle application. On the delicate balance between caution and momentum.

 

The burning does not disappear. It lingers like a live wire pressed to his sternum, flaring whenever he pushes the car hardest.

 

He wonders, briefly and irrationally, if his body is simply betraying him under pressure. If this is what the book meant about emotional bleed through in competitive environments.

 

He refuses to let it win.

 

Lap by lap, the gap stabilises. Lando cannot quite close. George cannot quite threaten. The rain eases to a steady drizzle.

 

When the chequered flag finally falls, Oscar exhales in something that feels almost like relief more than triumph.

 

“P1, Oscar. That’s P1. Mega job.”

 

He nods once, chest still aching.

 

On the cool down lap, the pain begins to ebb, retreating in slow reluctant waves until it is only a dull heat beneath his skin.

 

He climbs from the car to the roar of thousands. Orange everywhere. Flags whipping. Smoke flares staining the air.

 

Lando joins him in parc fermé, clapping him on the helmet. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, breathless.

 

George arrives moments later, satisfied and sharp eyed.

 

Max is not there.

 

Oscar does not consciously register the absence at first. He is swept into interviews, into congratulations, into the ritual of standing on the top step again while champagne arcs through rain dampened air.

 

He feels it now only as a faint warmth, the violence of earlier reduced to embers.

 

It is hours later, after the podium, after the debrief, after the flood of media obligations, that he finally hears it.

 

He is in the hospitality area, towelling his hair dry, when someone mentions it casually.

 

“Max did well to save that spin,” a mechanic says to another. “Could’ve been huge.”

 

Oscar’s hand stills.

 

“What spin?” he asks before he can stop himself.

 

They look at him, surprised.

 

“When the rain first hit. Turn 3. Rear just snapped. He nearly put it in the wall but caught it. Dropped him back to fifth.”

 

Oscar’s stomach tightens.

 

“When was that?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.

 

“Lap twenty one? Twenty two? Right as it started coming down properly.”

 

Lap twenty one.

 

The moment the pain had detonated.

 

He nods once, as if filing away a harmless statistic.

 

“Good save then,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” the mechanic replies. “Properly impressive.”

 

Oscar forces himself to move again, to resume the motions of normalcy. He tells himself it is coincidence. Rain causes spins. Adrenaline causes strange physiological responses. There is no logical bridge between Max nearly hitting a barrier and his own chest feeling like it was being torn open.

 

And yet, he remembers the intensity, the timing.

 

He remembers the way the pain had peaked and then gradually faded as the race stabilised.

 

He pushes the thought away firmly.

 

Correlation is not destiny.

 

Later, back in his hotel room, he stands in front of the mirror again. He lifts his shirt slowly.

The words look darker tonight. Not inflamed. Just vivid. Defined.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

He traces them lightly with his fingertips.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he murmurs to his reflection.

 

Max is not his soulmate.

 

Max is his rival. His benchmark. The driver everyone measures themselves against. Admiration does not equal fate.

 

He thinks about the save described to him. The precision it must have taken in those conditions. The instinct. The refusal to yield.

 

He feels something warm settle low in his chest that has nothing to do with pain.

 

Respect, he tells himself.

 

It is just respect.

 

He pulls his shirt back down and turns away from the mirror.

 

Outside, Zandvoort is still glowing orange under the floodlights, the dunes quiet now after the storm.

 

Oscar lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the race in his mind.

 

He does not allow himself to dwell on how closely his body seemed to echo Max’s near disaster.

 

He does not examine too closely the way his breath had steadied when he heard that Max had saved it.

 

He closes his eyes and tells himself that admiration is not the same as longing.

 

And somewhere beneath his ribs, the ink hums softly, patient and unbothered by denial.

 

 

                                    🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

Monza arrives in a rush of scarlet and speed, the kind of weekend that strips Formula One back to its barest elements. Low drag. Long straights. Braking zones that demand conviction. Oscar tells himself he is focused solely on the championship, on maximising points, on stretching the fragile thread of his lead just a little further.

 

But he notices things now.

 

He notices the way his eyes track Max in the paddock without conscious permission. The way his attention sharpens when Max speaks in briefings, even if the words are routine. He notices the almost imperceptible shifts in Max’s posture on track, the way he positions the car defensively two laps before anyone else anticipates an overtake attempt.

 

He tells himself this is professional curiosity. Studying your main rival is common sense.

 

Still, something about Zandvoort lingers like an unfinished sentence.

 

The memory of finishing each other’s thoughts surfaces at inconvenient times. In debrief rooms. In the quiet space before sleep. It unsettles him in a way he cannot categorise.

 

His soulmark, for its part, has been calm.

 

Not dormant.

 

Warm.

 

A steady, low heat beneath his skin that feels less like warning and more like contentment. It hums faintly during podium ceremonies, during quiet evenings in Monaco, during flights between continents when he stares out of oval windows at the curvature of the earth.

 

He begins keeping track. Not obsessively, of course. Just notes in his phone late at night.

 

Date. Location. Sensation.

 

Warm during Monza podium.

 

Soft pulse during Singapore night race start.

 

Nothing during practices.

 

He does not write Max’s name beside the entries but he thinks it.

 

He notices that the warmth spikes slightly when Max wins in Singapore with clinical dominance, carving through strategy calls like they are suggestions rather than limitations. Oscar finishes third that weekend, and while he stands on the podium he feels a strange flicker of pride that does not entirely belong to him.

 

He pushes that thought away too.

 

Admiration is not destiny.

 

By the time the calendar flips to the United States Grand Prix in Austin, the air feels different. The season is tightening. The points gap has narrowed slightly over the past few rounds. Every weekend carries weight now.

 

Texas greets them with dry heat and a sky so wide it feels almost theatrical. The Circuit of the Americas undulates like a rollercoaster, blind crests and heavy braking zones demanding total commitment.

 

From the moment Oscar wakes on Saturday, something feels off.

 

The ache begins early.

 

It is not sharp. Not violent. Just a dull, persistent soreness centred directly over the words on his chest. Like a bruise pressed too many times.

 

He stands in front of the hotel mirror before leaving for the track and lifts his shirt slightly.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

The ink looks normal. Dark. Clean. No redness, no flare, so he presses his fingertips lightly against it.

 

The ache deepens in response, a quiet warning.

 

“Not today,” he mutters under his breath, pulling the shirt back down.

 

Free practice passes without incident, but the ache never quite fades. It lingers through engineering meetings, through data reviews, through the quiet ritual of strapping into the car for qualifying.

 

He tries to ignore it.

 

He has learned how to compartmentalise discomfort. Drivers do not have the luxury of indulging every ache.

 

Still, as Q1 begins and engines scream to life, the soreness pulses faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat.

 

He pushes through it.

 

Q1 clean.

 

Q2 controlled.

 

In Q3 he strings together a lap that feels good but not perfect. He crosses the line and slots into P2, just behind Lando. George sits fourth.

 

Max is lower than expected.

 

Oscar sees the times on the screen as they scroll.

 

P6.

 

He frowns slightly beneath his helmet. It is not a disastrous position, but it is not typical for Max, especially here. The ache in his chest sharpens suddenly, as if in confirmation.

 

He swallows.

 

When he climbs out of the car in parc fermé, the soreness has evolved into something tighter. Not yet pain. Just pressure building beneath his sternum.

 

He keeps his face neutral during the immediate interviews.

 

“Happy with P2?” a journalist asks.

 

“Yeah,” Oscar replies evenly. “It’s a long race. Plenty of opportunity tomorrow.”

 

He does not look toward where Max stands a few metres away, answering his own questions with clipped efficiency.

 

But he can feel him, not physically. Something else.

 

The press pen is crowded after qualifying, bodies jostling for position, cameras thrust forward aggressively. Oscar navigates it carefully, answering questions about tyre strategy, about championship pressure, about whether he’s surprised by Max’s position on the grid.

 

“It’s tight,” he says diplomatically. “Margins are small. Tomorrow will be about execution.”

 

Inside, the ache intensifies.

 

By the time he finally breaks free of the media scrum and steps back into the paddock walkway, the soreness has become a low, burning throb.

 

He barely registers the figure turning the corner at the same time he does.

 

They collide shoulder to shoulder, hard enough to jolt both of them off balance.

 

“Watch it,” Max snaps instinctively, irritation sharp in his voice.

 

Oscar steadies himself. “Sorry,” he says automatically, though his own nerves are frayed.

 

Max’s jaw is tight, eyes flashing with something darker than simple annoyance.

 

“You could look where you’re going,” Max says.

 

Oscar blinks, surprised by the edge.

“It was an accident.”

 

Max exhales sharply. “Yeah, well.”

 

The ache spikes again, more insistent now. Oscar feels his patience thin in tandem.

 

“What’s your problem?” he asks, more sharply than intended.

 

Max’s expression hardens. “No problem.”

 

“Clearly there is.”

 

They are too close. The paddock corridor suddenly feels narrow, air thick with tension.

 

“I don’t need commentary on my qualifying,” Max says, voice low.

 

“I didn’t comment,” Oscar replies. “You qualified sixth. That’s not commentary.”

 

Max’s eyes flash. “You think you’re clever?”

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

The words escalate faster than either of them intend. It is absurd, really. A bumped shoulder. A bad qualifying session. Fatigue layered on top of championship pressure.

 

But the air between them crackles.

 

“Maybe focus on your own race,” Max says.

 

“I am,” Oscar snaps back. “I always am.”

 

Their voices rise without permission. Team members glance over, sensing the shift.

 

“Don’t pretend you don’t—”

 

Max stops abruptly.

 

His face drains of colour.

 

His hand flies to his side, fingers digging into his shoulder as if something inside him has seized.

 

The pain hits Oscar half a second later. It is not a spike. It is an explosion.

 

White hot agony tears across his chest, centred precisely over the ink. He doubles over instinctively, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he can suppress it.

 

Watch the world burn ignites like molten metal under his skin.

 

He presses his palm against his sternum and feels wetness immediately.

 

Heat. Liquid.

 

His vision blurs.

 

Max is bent forward too, breathing ragged, one hand braced against the wall.

 

“What the—” someone says nearby.

 

Oscar barely hears it.

 

The pain is unbearable. Not like winter, which had been overwhelming but distant. This is intimate. Violent. Personal.

 

It feels like something is ripping outward from inside his chest.

 

He tastes copper and looks down instinctively.

Dark red seeps through the thin fabric of his team shirt, blooming outward from the centre.

 

Blood.

 

A collective murmur rises around them.

 

“Oscar?”

 

He cannot answer.

 

The world narrows to the sound of his own heartbeat and the blinding agony radiating from the words carved into his skin.

 

Across from him, Max’s face is contorted in mirrored torment.

 

Their eyes meet through the haze. For a split second, something clicks. Recognition. Fear.

 

Understanding hovering just out of reach.

 

The pain spikes again, so intense Oscar’s knees buckle. His hand slips against the blood soaking through his shirt.

 

He hears someone shouting for medical.

 

He hears Lando’s voice somewhere, sharp with panic.

 

“Oscar!”

 

The edges of his vision darken rapidly.

 

The last thing he sees before everything collapses into black is Max reaching forward instinctively, as if to steady him, his own expression stricken and unguarded.

 

 

 

Consciousness returns slowly, like surfacing through thick water.

 

Oscar becomes aware of sound first. A steady, rhythmic beeping somewhere to his right. The faint hum of air conditioning. Footsteps in a corridor beyond a half closed door. His body feels heavy, anchored, as if gravity has increased overnight.

 

Then pain. Not the explosive agony from earlier. Not the violent tearing heat.

 

This is different.

 

Dull. Bandaged. Managed.

 

His chest feels tight, wrapped securely, a pressure that restricts deeper breaths. He inhales carefully and winces as the movement pulls against whatever has been taped or stitched beneath the fabric.

 

His eyelids flutter open.

 

The room is bright but clinical, white walls and a narrow window letting in late afternoon light. The ceiling tiles are painfully ordinary. There is a drip line taped into the back of his hand.

 

He turns his head slightly.

 

Lando is slumped in a chair beside the bed, elbows on knees, fingers threaded through his hair. He looks like he hasn’t moved in hours.

 

Oscar shifts again, the sheets rustling.

 

Lando’s head snaps up instantly.

 

“You’re awake,” he breathes, relief flooding his face so quickly it almost makes Oscar’s chest ache more.

 

“Unfortunately,” Oscar croaks. His throat feels dry, raw.

 

Lando huffs out something between a laugh and a sob and stands, dragging the chair closer.

 

“Don’t do that again,” he says, voice still shaky.

 

Oscar frowns faintly. Memory arrives in fractured flashes. The corridor. The argument. Max’s face twisting in pain. Heat blooming across his chest.

 

He looks down slowly.

 

His torso is wrapped in thick white bandages, snug around his ribs and sternum. A faint shadow of red has seeped through in places.

 

He swallows.

 

“What happened?”

 

Lando exhales, running a hand down his face.

 

“You passed out,” he says. “Obviously. You were bleeding through your shirt, like properly bleeding. Everyone thought you’d been stabbed or something.”

 

Oscar’s brow furrows.

 

“And Max?”

 

Lando hesitates, then tilts his head toward the other side of the room.

 

Oscar turns carefully.

 

Another bed sits parallel to his own, separated by a narrow gap and a curtain that has been drawn back. Max lies there, unconscious, dark hair slightly mussed against the pillow. His face is pale in the hospital lighting, sharper somehow without the usual guarded tension.

 

His right shoulder is heavily bandaged, white gauze wrapped tight beneath the hospital gown. The fabric is slightly raised, as if something beneath it required compression.

 

Oscar’s breath catches faintly.

 

“He went down about ten seconds after you,” Lando says quietly. “You two were shouting and then you both just—” He gestures helplessly. “Folded.”

 

Oscar closes his eyes briefly, trying to piece it together.

 

“I didn’t hit him,” he murmurs.

 

“I know,” Lando says quickly. “There was no contact. You just… reacted.”

 

Reacted.

 

Oscar’s mind drifts unwillingly to the patterns he’s been tracking. The ache earlier that day. Max qualifying lower than usual. The spike of pain in Zandvoort when Max nearly hit the wall.

 

He opens his eyes again.

 

“Is he okay?”

 

Lando follows his gaze.

 

“Stable. Doctors said no internal injuries. Just… the marks.” He lowers his voice slightly on the last word.

 

Oscar’s pulse jumps.

 

“They said what?”

 

“They asked if you two knew each other,” Lando says. “Like personally. I told them you’re rivals. They didn’t look surprised.”

 

Oscar studies Max more closely now. Even unconscious, there’s a tension to him, as if his body doesn’t entirely trust rest. His right hand is curled slightly in the sheet, knuckles faintly scraped from something unrelated.

 

“He reached for you,” Lando adds after a moment. “Before he went down.”

 

Oscar’s stomach flips.

 

“What?”

 

“You were already collapsing,” Lando says. “He grabbed at you. Like he was trying to catch you. And then he just—” He snaps his fingers softly. “Out.”

 

Silence settles between them.

 

The monitor beside Oscar’s bed continues its steady beep.

 

After a long pause, Lando clears his throat.

 

“They’re not clearing either of you to race tomorrow,” he says gently. “Medical decision. Too much blood loss for you and whatever the hell happened to his shoulder… they don’t want to risk it.”

 

Oscar nods slowly.

 

The championship math flickers through his mind automatically, then fades. It feels distant compared to the heaviness in his chest.

 

“Good,” he says quietly. “Probably.”

 

Lando watches him for a beat, something unreadable in his expression.

 

“You two need to talk,” he says eventually.

 

Oscar’s gaze sharpens. “About what?”

 

Lando raises his eyebrows but doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he squeezes Oscar’s forearm lightly.

 

“I’m going to grab coffee before I fall asleep on you. Try not to bleed again.”

 

Oscar huffs faintly. “No promises.”

 

Lando lingers another second, then steps out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.

 

Silence expands.

 

Oscar shifts slightly in the bed, wincing as the movement tugs at the bandages.

 

A few minutes pass.

 

Then he hears it.

 

A subtle change in breathing from the bed beside him.

 

He turns his head.

 

Max’s brow furrows slightly. His fingers twitch against the sheet. His eyelids flutter, then open slowly, confusion clouding his gaze as he takes in the ceiling.

 

He inhales sharply and immediately winces, his left hand instinctively moving toward his right shoulder before stopping short at the bandages.

 

He turns his head.

 

Their eyes meet.

 

For a moment neither of them speaks.

 

“You look terrible,” Max says finally, voice rough.

 

Oscar almost laughs despite the tightness in his chest. “You should see yourself.”

 

Max glances down at his shoulder, then back at Oscar.

 

“What happened?”

 

Oscar swallows.

 

“Lando said we both passed out,” he replies. “You reached for me. Then you went down.”

 

Max frowns slightly, as if trying to drag memory back into focus.

 

“I remember arguing,” he says slowly. “Then it just—” He makes a small, frustrated gesture with his good hand. “Exploded.”

 

Oscar nods faintly. “Yeah.”

 

Max studies him more closely now, gaze dropping to the bandages around Oscar’s chest.

 

“You were bleeding,” he says.

 

“So were you,” Oscar counters quietly.

 

Max’s jaw tightens.

 

Before either of them can say more, there’s a soft knock at the door.

 

A woman in a white coat steps inside, tablet in hand, expression composed but attentive.

 

“Good,” she says gently. “You’re both awake.”

 

She moves first to Max, checking his pulse, adjusting the edge of the bandage at his shoulder with careful hands.

 

“Pain level?” she asks.

 

“Tolerable,” Max replies automatically.

 

She nods, then turns to Oscar.

 

“And you?”

 

“Fine,” Oscar says.

 

She gives him a look that clearly indicates she does not believe him, but she does not argue.

 

“You both experienced what we classify as an acute sympathetic flare,” she says, glancing between them. “Your inscription sites reacted to heightened emotional stimuli.”

 

Oscar’s brow furrows.

 

“Heightened emotional stimuli,” he repeats.

 

“Yes,” she says calmly. “Your marks are connected. When one of you experiences extreme emotional spikes, particularly anger or distress, the other may experience a mirrored physiological response.”

 

Max goes very still.

 

“And that causes bleeding?” he asks flatly.

 

“In rare cases,” she replies. “When the emotional escalation is mutual and simultaneous, the flare can intensify. The tissue around the inscriptions becomes inflamed. Capillaries rupture. Pain receptors overload.”

 

Oscar’s pulse pounds in his ears.

 

“So we just… got too angry?” he says, trying to keep his tone neutral.

 

She nods slightly.

 

“Your emotional states amplified one another. It is not uncommon in bonded pairs who are not yet fully aware of or aligned with the connection.”

 

Bonded pairs.

 

The phrase hangs in the air.

 

Oscar focuses on the clinical cadence of her voice, on the way she scrolls calmly through her tablet.

 

“You’ll both need rest,” she continues. “Minimal stimulation. Avoid confrontation. The marks require time to stabilise after such an event.”

 

Max exhales slowly through his nose.

 

“And racing tomorrow?”

 

“Absolutely not,” she says firmly. “You will both be withdrawn.”

 

Oscar nods once.

 

The doctor offers a small, reassuring smile.

 

“This is not catastrophic,” she adds. “It is simply… intense. These bonds can be volatile when resisted.”

 

Resisted.

 

She checks their monitors once more, then steps back toward the door.

 

“We’ll continue to monitor you overnight,” she says. “Try to sleep.”

 

The door closes softly behind her.

 

Silence returns, heavier now.

 

Oscar stares at the ceiling, replaying her words in his mind.

 

Connected.

 

Bonded pairs.

 

Mirrored response.

 

Beside him, Max shifts slightly, his breath measured. Neither of them speaks for a long moment.

 

Oscar’s chest throbs faintly beneath the bandages, a dull reminder of what just happened. He turns his head slightly toward Max.

 

“That was dramatic,” he says quietly.

 

Max lets out a dry, humourless laugh.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Neither of them says the word hovering unspoken between them.

 

Soulmates.

 

Instead, they lie there in parallel hospital beds, separated by barely a metre of air and a lifetime of denial, both of them staring at opposite walls as if the answer might be written there instead.

 

 

Morning arrives quietly.

 

The hospital room is washed in pale Texan sunlight that slips through the narrow blinds and paints thin stripes across the floor. The beeping of the monitors has become background noise now, steady and unthreatening. Oscar wakes slowly, the events of the previous day returning in measured fragments rather than panic.

 

His chest aches, but it is a controlled ache. The bandages are still tight around his ribs, the fabric of the hospital gown soft against skin that feels tender and overused. He shifts slightly and winces, breath catching as the movement pulls at healing tissue.

 

Across the small gap between their beds, Max is already awake.

 

He is propped up slightly against his pillows, remote in his left hand, the television mounted high on the wall playing the pre race build up from the circuit. The sound is low, commentators filling air that neither of them will occupy today.

 

For a moment they simply look at each other.

 

“You look worse in daylight,” Max says dryly.

 

Oscar huffs faintly. “That’s harsh.”

 

Max shrugs lightly, then winces as the motion tugs at his shoulder. The bandages there are visible now beneath the open collar of the hospital gown, wrapped tightly around the upper part of his right arm and shoulder joint.

 

“They’re about to start the formation lap,” Max says, glancing back at the screen. “Figured we might as well suffer properly.”

 

Oscar nods once.

 

“Turn it up,” he says.

 

The sound of engines fills the room as the cars roll off the grid. It is strange watching it from here. Detached. Removed from the tension of the cockpit and the physicality of the steering wheel vibrating in your hands.

 

They watch in silence at first.

 

George lines up on pole now, Lando beside him. The camera cuts to the empty spaces where Oscar and Max should have been.

 

The commentators speculate politely about medical withdrawals and “unexpected circumstances.”

 

Oscar feels a flicker of guilt, quickly smothered.

 

“George will be aggressive into Turn 1,” Max says quietly, analytical even now.

 

“He always is,” Oscar replies. “If Lando gets a better launch he’ll squeeze him wide.”

 

The lights go out.

 

They both lean forward slightly, instinctive.

 

The race unfolds on the screen, cars jostling for position, tyre smoke curling into the humid air. Oscar finds himself relaxing into the familiarity of it, into the shared language of strategy and instinct that does not require effort.

 

Max makes small observations under his breath. About brake bias. About how the wind has shifted. About how George should pit earlier than expected.

 

Oscar counters occasionally. Suggests alternative strategies. Predicts overtakes.

 

It feels different today.

 

Less combative.

 

More aligned.

 

Halfway through the first stint, during a lull when the field has spread out and the commentary dips into statistics, Max’s voice shifts slightly.

 

“Has that ever happened before?”

 

Oscar turns his head.

 

“What?”

 

“The flare,” Max says, gesturing faintly toward his own shoulder. “Yesterday.”

 

Oscar hesitates.

 

He could lie.

 

He has been lying by omission for months.

 

But something about the sterile quiet of the hospital room, about watching a race neither of them can influence, strips away the usual layers of deflection.

 

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

 

Max’s gaze sharpens.

 

“When?”

 

“Winter,” Oscar replies. “Before the 2024 season.”

 

Max waits.

 

Oscar inhales carefully, the movement tight against his bandages.

 

“I was in Melbourne,” he begins. “At my parents’ place. It started as a burning. Thought I was ill or something, then it just exploded. I blacked out.”

 

Max’s expression shifts subtly.

 

“For how long?”

 

“Two days.”

 

Max blinks slowly. “Two days?”

 

“Yeah.” Oscar’s lips curve faintly without humour. “Woke up with blood on my shirt. My mum had called Mark at three in the morning because she thought I’d died.”

 

Max exhales, a low, stunned sound.

 

“You never—”

 

“I didn’t know what it was,” Oscar interrupts gently. “I read about it. Bond ignition. Emotional distress. Trauma. I didn’t know which one it was.”

 

Max looks down at his bandaged shoulder, fingers flexing lightly against the sheet.

 

“I had something,” he says after a moment.

 

Oscar’s pulse jumps.

 

“When?”

 

“Melbourne,” Max replies.

 

Oscar’s heart stutters.

 

“This year.”

 

He watches Max carefully now.

 

“Saturday was fine,” Max continues slowly. “Sunday… something felt off. Shoulder was aching all day. Thought I’d tweaked it in training. During the race it started burning. Like properly burning.”

 

Oscar’s breath grows shallow.

 

“What lap?”

 

Max frowns slightly, thinking. “Mid race. When you spun.”

 

Oscar goes very still.

 

“Turn 9,” Max continues. “You lost the rear. It looked like you were out. Timing screen showed DNF for a second.”

 

Oscar’s mind snaps back to it instantly. The snap of oversteer. The sickening slide toward the edge of the track. The violent correction. The way the car had nearly stalled before he forced it back into motion, clawing it back onto the racing line with sheer refusal to give up.

 

“I remember,” Oscar says quietly. “I thought it was over.”

 

Max nods once. “My shoulder felt like it was on fire. Started bleeding through the suit. Could barely move my arm for a few laps.”

 

Oscar’s stomach flips.

 

“You came back out,” Max says. “Like nothing happened.”

 

Oscar’s chest tightens beneath the bandages.

 

“I don’t really remember saving it,” he admits. “Just remember the adrenaline.”

 

Max gives a short, disbelieving breath.

 

“I thought it was just adrenaline too,” he says. “Or a tear. But scans were clean.”

 

They sit with that.

 

The race continues on the screen, cars diving into pit lanes, commentators dissecting tyre strategy.

 

Oscar’s mind, however, is elsewhere.

 

He begins to trace the timeline in his head.

 

Winter 2024. His ignition. Two days unconscious.

 

Melbourne this year. His spin. Max bleeding.

 

Zandvoort. The mirrored shoulder twinge and chest flare during the press conference.

 

Texas. Simultaneous collapse.

 

The notes in his phone. The patterns. The way his mark warmed when Max won. The ache when Max qualified poorly.

 

The doctor’s words.

 

Connected.

 

Bonded pairs.

 

Mutual escalation.

 

He feels the pieces sliding into place with terrifying clarity.

 

His chest begins to heat. At first it is subtle, then it grows. Not painful. Radiant. He inhales sharply.

 

Max looks over immediately.

 

“What?”

 

Oscar lifts his trembling hand and presses it against his sternum.

 

The warmth intensifies, spreading outward in a steady, brilliant pulse. He feels it beneath the bandages, like something awakening fully for the first time.

 

The room seems brighter suddenly.

 

Max’s breath catches.

 

Oscar’s gaze drops instinctively to Max’s shoulder.

 

The bandages there are beginning to glow faintly through the thin hospital fabric, a soft golden light seeping through like sunrise behind clouds.

 

They stare at each other.

 

Understanding crashes over Oscar all at once.

 

The winter ignition.

 

The Melbourne pain during his spin.

 

The way Max had flared when he nearly lost it.

 

The mirrored twinge in Zandvoort.

 

The collapse in Texas.

 

The way their thoughts had aligned.

 

The way admiration had shifted into something warmer, deeper, more personal.

 

It is not coincidence.

 

It has never been coincidence.

 

“You,” Oscar breathes.

 

Max’s eyes are wide now, fixed on the faint gold glow radiating from Oscar’s chest beneath the gauze.

 

“Are you serious,” Max whispers, not as a question but as disbelief given shape.

 

Oscar feels a laugh bubble up, hysterical and relieved all at once.

 

“It’s you,” he says, more certain now.

 

The warmth becomes brilliant, almost blinding behind his closed eyelids when he squeezes them shut briefly. The words etched into his skin feel alive, humming with satisfaction rather than pain.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

He understands now.

 

Not destruction, transformation.

 

Max shifts slightly, ignoring the tug of his bandages.

 

“My shoulder’s never done that,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

 

The glow intensifies for a moment, then stabilises into a steady golden warmth.

 

They sit there, hospital gowns and monitors and the sound of engines on television fading into background noise, staring at each other like they are seeing something entirely new and entirely inevitable at the same time.

 

Max’s expression shifts first.

 

Not fear.

 

Not resistance.

 

Something softer. Quieter.

 

Awe, maybe.

 

“Well,” he says finally, voice rough but steady. “That’s inconvenient.”

 

Oscar laughs properly then, the sound easing something tight in his ribs.

 

“Inconvenient?” he echoes.

 

“You’re leading the championship,” Max replies. “I’m trying to take it from you.”

 

Oscar tilts his head slightly.

 

“You can try,” he says.

 

Max’s mouth curves faintly.

 

Silence stretches, but it is no longer heavy.

 

It feels charged.

 

Possibility instead of denial.

 

Oscar swallows, heart beating steadily now rather than erratically.

 

“So,” he says, forcing himself to hold Max’s gaze. “When we get out of here.”

 

Max raises an eyebrow slightly.

 

“We should probably—”

 

“Have dinner,” Oscar finishes quickly, before his courage evaporates. “Somewhere that isn’t a hospital. Or the paddock.”

 

Max studies him for a long second.

 

The golden warmth between them hums, steady and certain.

 

“You’re asking me out?” Max says, tone unreadable.

 

Oscar’s ears burn slightly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Max’s eyes flick down briefly, then back up.

 

“Alright,” he says simply.

 

Oscar blinks. “Alright?”

 

“Yeah.” Max’s mouth tilts faintly at one corner. “Dinner.”

 

The glow beneath the bandages pulses once more, brighter, then settles into something warm and content.

 

On the television, the race continues without them.

 

In the hospital room, however, something far more decisive has just crossed the line.

 

 

                                      🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

Three weeks later, Monaco feels different.

 

Not because the harbour is any less obscene in its luxury, or because the cliffs have shifted, or because the narrow streets have softened their sharp turns. It feels different because something inside Oscar has settled.

 

He and Max had been discharged two days after Austin. The doctors had spoken in measured, clinical tones about activation and stabilisation, about how soulmate bonds often erupt violently when resisted for too long. There had been pamphlets. Monitoring plans. Strict instructions to avoid “intense emotional escalation.”

 

The irony had not been lost on either of them.

 

The moment they stepped back into the paddock the following race weekend, the world had closed in again. Team briefings. Championship calculations. Media speculation about their simultaneous withdrawals. Neither of them had said anything publicly beyond vague references to “medical precaution.”

 

Privately, there had been texts.

 

Oscar:

You alive?

 

Max:

Barely.

 

Oscar:

Shoulder?

 

Max:

Better. Chest?

 

Oscar:

Still fine.

 

 

It had been almost funny how quickly something that should have been earth shattering became threaded into routine.

 

Still, they had not had time. Not properly. Every weekend since Austin had been compressed and frantic, both of them clawing back points and momentum after missing a race. They had kept a careful, almost conspiratorial distance in the paddock. Not avoidance. Just containment.

 

The bond no longer burned unpredictably. It hummed instead, steady and warm. When Max won in Mexico, Oscar had felt a flare of pride that was distinctly separate from rivalry. When Oscar stood on the podium in Brazil, he had felt the echo of Max’s satisfaction ripple through him even from a different parc fermé.

 

It was stabilised now.

 

Aligned.

 

Dinner had been Max’s idea, technically.

 

Max:

You free Tuesday? Monaco.

 

Oscar had stared at the message for a full minute before replying.

 

Oscar:

Yes.

 

The restaurant Max chose sits tucked into a quieter stretch above the port, not one of the loud, see and be seen places but something more deliberate. Soft lighting. White tablecloths. A terrace that looks out over the water where the yachts glow faintly under evening lights.

 

Oscar arrives first, nerves tightening low in his stomach in a way that has nothing to do with race starts.

 

He tells himself this is ridiculous.

 

He has stood on podiums in front of hundreds of thousands of people without flinching.

 

Max walks in ten minutes later, dressed simply but sharply, the kind of understated confidence that looks effortless and absolutely is not.

 

For a moment they just look at each other.

 

It still feels surreal.

 

Max smiles faintly.

 

“You clean up alright,” he says.

 

Oscar rolls his eyes lightly. “So do you.”

 

The first few minutes are easy, almost too easy. They talk about Brazil. About how unpredictable Vegas might be later in the season. About the absurdity of being hospital roommates in Texas.

 

But gradually, the edges soften.

 

They talk about childhood. About karting tracks in the rain. About the loneliness of junior formulas, of growing up too fast in hotel rooms and motorhomes. Max speaks about pressure with a bluntness he rarely allows in public. Oscar listens, really listens, not as a rival dissecting weaknesses but as someone who understands the shape of it.

 

At some point their hands brush across the table.

 

Neither of them pulls away.

 

The warmth that spreads across Oscar’s chest is familiar now. Not sharp. Not alarming. Just steady.

 

“I didn’t expect it to be you,” Max says at one point, not looking up from his glass.

 

Oscar huffs softly. “That’s flattering.”

 

Max’s mouth twitches. “You know what I mean.”

 

Oscar does.

 

“I hoped it was someone in F1,” he admits quietly. “I just didn’t know who.”

 

Max glances up at that, something softer in his gaze.

 

They linger over dessert longer than necessary.

 

There is no rush.

 

When they finally step back out into the Monaco night, the air is cool and smells faintly of salt and expensive perfume. They walk side by side down toward Oscar’s apartment, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush.

 

Inside, the space is quiet and dimly lit, city lights spilling through the windows in fractured reflections.

 

Oscar kicks off his shoes near the door and laughs quietly under his breath.

 

“What?” Max asks.

 

“I just realised something,” Oscar says, turning to face him fully.

 

Max tilts his head slightly.

 

“I don’t know what yours says.”

 

Max blinks. “My mark?”

 

“Yeah.” Oscar gestures vaguely toward Max’s shoulder. “We’ve nearly bled out together and I don’t even know if it’s the same as mine or… complimentary or something.”

 

Max’s expression shifts, curiosity replacing amusement.

 

“You never asked.”

 

“You never offered,” Oscar counters.

 

There is a brief pause, then Max reaches for the hem of his shirt.

 

The movement is unhurried.

 

He pulls it up and over his head, tossing it onto the back of a chair.

 

Oscar’s breath catches, not because of bare skin, but because of what it reveals.

 

Across Max’s right shoulder, where the bandages had been weeks earlier, the ink curves dark and deliberate.

 

Light the match.

 

The words are sharp, clean, almost carved. Oscar stares.

 

Light the match.

 

A slow, almost disbelieving smile spreads across his face.

 

“Of course it does,” he murmurs.

 

Max watches him carefully. “What?”

 

Oscar reaches for his own shirt.

 

He hesitates for half a second, then pulls it off, the fabric sliding over healing skin. Across his chest, the words are as vivid as ever.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

They stand there, a few feet apart in the quiet glow of the apartment, staring at each other’s marks like they are seeing scripture.

 

Light the match.

 

Watch the world burn.

 

For a long moment neither of them speaks.

 

The symmetry is almost absurd in its clarity.

 

Max exhales softly. “That’s… dramatic.”

 

Oscar laughs under his breath. “You’re the one lighting things.”

 

Max steps closer instinctively, drawn by something that feels less like choice and more like gravity.

 

The warmth between them builds, golden and steady.

 

Oscar crosses the remaining distance first.

 

He reaches up, fingers brushing lightly along Max’s jaw before he leans in.

 

The kiss is not rushed.

 

It is careful at first. Testing.

 

Then it deepens.

 

Max’s hands find Oscar’s waist, firm and certain, pulling him closer as the bond beneath their skin hums in contentment rather than pain.

 

They break only to breathe, foreheads resting briefly together.

 

Max’s voice is lower now.

 

“I feel… calmer,” he admits quietly. “Since Austin.”

 

Oscar nods, brushing his thumb lightly over the edge of Max’s shoulder where the words curve.

 

“Me too.”

 

Max’s hand slides up Oscar’s spine, resting at the nape of his neck.

 

“It’s like everything’s… aligned,” Max continues. “I didn’t realise how loud it was before. In here.” He taps lightly at his chest.

 

Oscar understands immediately.

 

“I always thought I was calm,” he says softly. “But this is different.”

 

Max smiles faintly. “Yeah.”

 

They sink back onto the couch together, limbs tangling easily, the kind of closeness that feels inevitable rather than forced. Their kisses grow less tentative, more certain, hands tracing familiar lines of shoulders and backs as if memorising something they have technically known for years without recognising it.

 

Max pulls back slightly, studying Oscar’s face.

 

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says simply.

 

There is no irony. No teasing edge.

 

Just truth.

 

Oscar’s chest warms in response, the words beneath his skin glowing faintly as if pleased.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, voice softer than usual. “Me too.”

 

Outside, Monaco glitters as it always has.

 

Inside, two drivers who have spent their lives chasing milliseconds sit tangled together on a couch, finally still in a way neither of them knew they were missing.

 

 

                                      🏎️🏎️🏎️

 

 

The final race weekend arrives wrapped in heat and inevitability.

 

The championship has been tightening for months, numbers narrowing and expanding with every overtake and pit stop, but by the time they land for the last round of the season, the arithmetic is simple. Oscar leads. Lando is close enough to keep it honest. Max is not far behind either, mathematically alive but needing chaos.

 

The paddock feels charged from the moment they step into it. Cameras linger longer. Questions are sharper. Every answer is weighed for subtext.

 

Oscar feels strangely calm.

 

Not the brittle, performative calm he used to construct for himself. Not the tight control that kept everything in neat compartments.

 

This is different.

 

There is a steady warmth beneath his ribs that has nothing to do with climate. A grounding presence that hums low and constant.

 

Max walks beside him through the paddock on Thursday morning, not touching but close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. They are careful in public, still. Professional. Measured.

 

But Oscar feels him.

 

Not through pain anymore. Not through violent flares or unpredictable burns.

 

Through alignment.

 

Through quiet.

 

Qualifying is ruthless. The margins are microscopic. Lando hooks up a near perfect lap and claims pole. Oscar slots into second. Max lines up third, close enough to threaten but not enough to dictate.

 

It is fitting, really.

 

The three of them.

 

All season it has been the same trio at the sharp end, trading wins and frustration and grudging respect.

 

On Sunday evening, the sun dips low over the circuit and paints the sky in bruised gold and pink. The air is thick with tension and possibility.

 

Five red lights.

 

Oscar’s world narrows.

 

Lights out.

 

He launches cleanly, tucks in behind Lando into Turn 1, keeping Max firmly in his mirrors. The opening laps are surgical. No risks beyond necessity. No overcommitment.

 

He knows the scenarios.

 

If he finishes ahead of Max and within a few positions of Lando, it is his.

 

The race stretches long and breathless.

 

A safety car midway through compresses the field, heartbeats climbing in unison across garages. Max is relentless behind him, probing for weakness, forcing Oscar to defend harder than he would like.

 

But Oscar does not panic.

 

He feels steady.

 

Every time his pulse spikes, there is a counterbalance. A grounding warmth that anchors him in the present rather than the fear of what could be lost.

 

In the final stint, Lando leads but cannot break free. Oscar holds second with precision. Max remains third, close but not quite close enough.

 

The final laps blur into pure instinct.

 

When the chequered flag waves and Oscar crosses the line in P2, the radio explodes.

 

“That’s it, Oscar. That’s it. You are the World Champion.”

 

For a moment he cannot breathe.

 

The words feel abstract. Unreal.

 

World Champion.

 

He exhales sharply, something almost like a laugh breaking loose.

 

“Copy,” he manages, voice unsteady for once.

 

On the cool down lap, he does not try to suppress the grin spreading uncontrollably across his face.

 

In parc fermé, Lando climbs out first, triumphant in his win but already turning toward Oscar with open arms. They collide in a tight embrace, years of shared garages and rivalry and friendship folding into one moment.

 

“You did it,” Lando says into his shoulder.

 

Oscar laughs, breathless. “Yeah.”

 

Max steps toward them a second later.

 

There is no bitterness in his expression. No shadow. Only pride. He grips Oscar’s shoulder firmly.

 

“Congratulations, schat.” he says, and it is not hollow.

 

Oscar meets his eyes.

 

“Thank you,” he replies, and means more than just the race.

 

The podium is blinding under the floodlights. Fireworks explode overhead, scattering light across the night sky like a constellation forming in real time.

 

Lando stands on the top step for the race win, George absent this time, the three championship contenders occupying their now familiar positions.

 

When Oscar steps forward to receive the trophy for the championship, the roar is deafening.

 

He lifts it above his head and something inside him quiets completely.

 

All the years of karting in heat and rain. All the doubts. All the pressure.

 

It culminates here.

 

Champagne erupts, spraying arcs of gold and white across suits and skin. Lando is merciless as always, Max no less enthusiastic.

 

Oscar laughs, soaked and exhilarated.

 

And then, when the bottles are empty and the anthem has faded and the moment hangs suspended between noise and silence, he turns.

 

Max is standing just to his left, hair damp, eyes bright under the lights.

 

Oscar does not think.

 

He steps forward, grips Max by the collar of his race suit, and kisses him.

 

It is not subtle.

 

It is not careful.

 

It is long and certain and entirely unapologetic.

 

The crowd reacts with a mixture of cheers and shocked delight. Cameras flash wildly. Somewhere in the chaos, Lando whoops loudly.

 

Oscar pulls back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against Max’s.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

 

Max’s hands are firm at his waist.

 

“For what?”

 

“For everything,” Oscar says quietly. “For keeping me steady. For lighting the match.”

 

Max huffs a soft laugh at that.

 

“I love you,” Oscar adds, the words leaving his mouth with surprising ease.

 

Max’s expression softens in a way the world rarely sees.

 

“ik houd van je,” he replies without hesitation.

 

The warmth beneath Oscar’s skin flares gently, not painful, not overwhelming. Just bright.

 

Later that night, the celebration spills into one of the private venues along the marina. Music pulses through open terraces. Lights reflect off water and polished marble.

 

Drivers cluster in familiar groups.

 

Lando stands near the bar with Carlos, both flushed with victory and relief, arms slung loosely around each other as they laugh at something only they understand.

 

Pierre and Yuki are tucked into a quieter corner, close enough that they barely need to speak. Lance and Fernando arrive together, effortless and composed, exchanging easy congratulations.

 

Others filter in with partners, with friends, with family.

 

Toasts are made. Glasses raised high.

 

“To the World Champion,” someone calls.

 

Cheers ripple outward.

 

Oscar smiles, accepts the congratulations, endures the teasing about finally being “officially dramatic” after the podium kiss.

 

But through it all, Max remains at his side.

 

Sometimes their fingers lace together briefly out of sight. Sometimes Max’s hand rests at the small of Oscar’s back in quiet, grounding reassurance.

 

The room is loud. Joyous. Chaotic.

 

Oscar feels none of the old dissonance.

 

He watches Lando laugh with Carlos and feels uncomplicated happiness for him. He watches Pierre brush his thumb absentmindedly across Yuki’s wrist and recognises the same steady contentment in their posture.

 

He turns slightly toward Max.

 

“You okay?” he asks softly over the music.

 

Max glances at him, expression calm and certain.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly where I want to be.”

 

Oscar smiles.

 

He is World Champion.

 

But more than that, he is no longer alone in the quiet spaces between races.

 

Max’s hand tightens slightly around his.

 

And for once, neither of them feels the need to chase anything at all.

Notes:

comments & kudos are what keep me going <3