Archive of Our Own ^beta

November 22nd descended upon Las Vegas like a twisted promise. By day, the desert had been a white, jarring mirror. By night, the street circuit transformed into something else entirely: a serpent of black asphalt encircled by artificial lights, giant screens, and buildings that never slept. Everything shone too brightly.

In the Mercedes garage, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Kimi sat in one of the folding chairs, his racing suit still half-down, sleeves tied around his waist. His helmet rested between his legs, his gloves dangling lifelessly from one hand. He wasn't looking at the screen. He wasn't looking at anyone.

"P17…" he murmured, almost inaudibly, as if saying it aloud would make it truly real. He closed his eyes for a second. "It was just a bad lap," he finally told himself, quietly. "I can fix it tomorrow."

In the Sauber garage, the atmosphere wasn't much different. Perhaps even worse, because there, frustration was accompanied by resignation.

Gabriel stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His helmet rested on a nearby shelf, still warm. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes dark and tired.

"P18," he said to himself, as if that would diminish the number's power. "Right behind you, Kimi."

On the other side of the paddock, McLaren was experiencing a different night… but no less fraught.

Oscar sat across from his engineer, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. He had qualified fourth, a result that in another context would have been solid, even something to celebrate.

But not here. Not now. Not with a championship slipping through his fingers.

"Fourth isn't enough," Oscar said bluntly.

"It's the best we had today," the engineer replied. "The car was good."

The Australian shook his head slowly.

"Good doesn't win championships."

At Red Bull, Max walked calmly, almost too calmly. He had that dangerous calm, the calm of someone who knows he hasn't yet had his final say. The championship was alive. Tied in tension, though not yet in points.

The night wore on. The lights continued to shine. And everyone knew this wasn't going to be just another race.

The air vibrated with distant music, with engines warming up, with lights crossing the sky like mechanical insects. The asphalt still held the desert's chill, treacherous, polished, ready to punish any mistake.

On the starting grid, the cars looked like tense animals, huddled together, waiting for the signal to launch.

Kimi and Gabriel, separated by only a few meters, shared the same perspective: an endless straight of rear wings, red lights flashing like warnings.

Kimi adjusted his gloves. He closed his fingers once. Twice.

"Stay calm," the engineer's voice said over the radio. "Consistent pace. Avoid problems at the start."

The boy exhaled slowly.

"Roger."

In the Sauber car, Gabriel tilted his head slightly, resting his helmet against the seat back.

"Gabriel," his engineer called, "this race is about survival. If we see an opportunity, we take it. If not, we bring the car home."

Gabriel smiled, though no one could see it.

"That sounds pretty unglamorous for Las Vegas."

"It sounds like a sure thing if everything lines up."

"If everything lines up," he repeated. "Sure."

The lights came on one by one.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

The world seemed to contract in a single heartbeat.

And then—

Green.

The roar was immediate, brutal.

The first few laps were a tense dance. Clean overtakes, others on the edge. The walls were too close, the lighting deceived the eye, and the slightest mistake was costly.

The Sauber braked too late and ended up against an Aston Martin that he was praying was Lance Stroll's.

When he climbed out of the car a few laps later, the noise of the race continued to flow past him, indifferent. The marshals approached. The lights were still shining. The show went on.

Gabriel took off his helmet. The night air hit his face.

"Las Vegas," he whispered. "Always so kind."

The race progressed. Laps ticked by one after another. Strategies, clean pit stops, nerves held back.

When the checkered flag fell, nothing was entirely clear.

Kimi crossed the finish line far ahead of his starting position.

"Good job!" the radio announced.

The Italian smiled, exhausted.

"Good rescue."

At McLaren, Oscar crossed the finish line fourth, just behind the podium.

"P4," said his engineer.

For a few minutes, everything seemed stable.

The cars slowly rolled back to parc fermé, still hot, still vibrating. The drivers got out with automatic movements, their bodies tired, their minds still on the track.

The podium ceremony began. Photos. Champagne. Smiles. The music was too loud for what little there was to celebrate. Oscar wasn't there, but he watched from afar, helmet in hand, his expression subdued.

"Another fourth," he muttered. "Another damn fourth."

Max, from his position, was already doing mental calculations. The championship was still open. Still alive.

In Mercedes, Kimi sat in a chair, a towel around his neck, a half-finished water bottle.

"P5 hurts less coming from P17," someone commented.

"It hurts the same," Kimi replied. "Just different."

At McLaren, the first thing that changed was the expression on their faces. An engineer spoke in a low voice. Another shook his head. The screens filled with graphs, numbers, and red lines.

"What's going on?" Oscar asked, now standing, alert.

The answer was slow in coming, but when it arrived, it was a shock.

"Excessive wear on the metal plate."

Oscar blinked.

"What?"

"Both cars. We're outside the regulations."

Absolute silence.

"Disqualification?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

The engineer nodded.

"Disqualification."

The words landed like lead. Within minutes, the paddock began to murmur. Then to talk. Then to boil over.

Both McLarens: disqualified.

The result was rewritten in real time. At Mercedes, a hand touched Kimi's shoulder. The driver looked up.

P5 became P3.

"Really?"

"Really."

The championship standings were updated. Oscar, despite the disqualification, and Max... tied.

The circuit still breathed, even though the race had ended hours before.

The stands weren't completely empty. The floodlights were still on. The asphalt still radiated heat, and the air carried that distinctive metallic smell of race nights: fuel, worn tires, sweat, and adrenaline that refused to fade.

The adult’s pack had, for the most part, kept their distance. The last conversation had established some pretty clear boundaries.

Sometimes, Oscar felt eyes on his back. Some were harsh, judgmental, almost accusatory. Others… others were filled with something more uncomfortable: regret. Doubt. Things no one dared to voice.

Max had been one of the few who, from the very beginning, hadn't intruded. He had given them space. He had respected the silence. He had kept his distance even when it hurt him. And it was clear that it hurt.

Even so, that night, after everything—after the rewritten result, the phantom podium, the tie in the championship—the reigning world champion decided to approach him.

Oscar was sitting in one of the paddock's side areas, still in his team gear, his jacket zipped down to his chest, his shoulders slightly slumped. He held a water bottle in his hands, but wasn't drinking. He stared into space, exhausted.

Max stopped a couple of meters away. He didn't invade his space. He didn't speak immediately.

"Oscar," he said finally, carefully. "Can I steal you for a minute?"

The alpha looked up. His eyes were tired, somewhat dull, but alert.

"Now?" he asked, hesitant.

"If it's not a good time, I understand."

Oscar watched him for a few more seconds. Then he nodded slowly.

"Okay."

Max took a step closer, just enough to make the conversation more private.

“I want to make something clear first,” he began. “I’m not here to talk about packs. I promised to respect that… and I do. I just want to talk to you as a driver.”

The Australian tilted his head slightly. That piqued his curiosity.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m listening.”

Max took a deep breath.

“I understand your frustration,” he said bluntly. “And I think anyone who says they don’t see what’s going on at McLaren… is lying. It’s been pretty obvious this year.”

Oscar squeezed the bottle between his fingers.

“It’s no secret,” he replied. “But saying it doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” the Dutchman admitted. “It doesn’t change it. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Especially when you’re fighting for a championship.”

The other looked down for a second. When he looked up again, his voice was lower.

“Today was…” he paused, searching for the word. “Tough.”

Max nodded slowly.

“I know. And I also know what it’s like to carry the weight of a season that the media will dissect for years. Every decision. Every mistake. Every gesture.” He paused briefly. “It happened to me in 2021. And I promise you, it’s not something you forget.”

Oscar looked at him more closely now.

“You still have options,” he continued. “But whatever happens… whether you win, whether I win, or whether we both lose to Lando… I want you to know that I’m willing to listen if you need to vent to someone who understands what it’s like to be there.”

The alpha was silent. Then, very slowly, he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “Really.”

The tension in Max’s shoulders seemed to loosen a little. He smiled, gently, without arrogance.

“I’m glad you understand.”

They were silent for a moment, until Max spoke again.

“I also wanted to tell you something else,” he added. “Even though packs don’t work like they used to… I’d like to think that at least we can watch each other’s backs on the track.” He shrugged slightly. “The media and social networks are enough enemies already. I would never turn my back on any of your pups.”

Oscar let out a small smile. He understood the request. Some drivers hadn’t been so subtle in their attempts to discredit others; it made sense that Max wanted to ensure a fair fight, if only for the boys who still couldn’t stand talking to him.

“I prefer to keep my distance from many of the old pack,” he replied. “But I’m not going to deny help to anyone who deserves it.”

He didn’t say it directly. There was no need. Max understood perfectly that he was included, so he nodded.

"Thank you."

Silence settled between them again, this time more comfortable. This time Oscar was the first to break it.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked.

"Sure."

"How are you handling... everything about Yuki's pack?" he asked carefully. He hesitated for a second. "Yuki is your teammate... but Liam wasn't in your pack when he was... that means all your pups aren't with you anymore."

Max's smile slowly faded. He looked down at the ground.

"It still hurts," he admitted. "I'm not going to pretend it doesn't." He took a deep breath. "But I understand why it happened. And... I'd rather they be happy, even if it's not with me."

Oscar said nothing, giving him space.

"Yuki still talks to me, though not the way he used to when he was mine," the omega continued. "He tells me how the pack is doing. He says they're okay. That they're happy. He is happy."

A pause. Max opened his mouth... and fell silent. Oscar noticed.

"You can say it," he assured him. "I won't be upset."

The older one hesitated for another second, then murmured,

“I’d like to be able to talk to your pups once in a while. Something more than just the usual weekend chat. To have a slightly more open relationship… similar to the one I have with Yuki.”

Oscar looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “Maybe… in time, if the boys want it, it’ll be possible.”

Max smiled, slightly, gratefully.

“That’s enough.”

They remained silent for a few more seconds. Oscar began to stir, preparing to leave.

"Well…" he said. "I should—"

"Oscar," Max interrupted.

He turned, surprised.

"Yes?"

Max seemed more serious now. More tense.

“I need to ask you a favor,” he said. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to accept it. But I need to ask anyway.” He paused. “And whether you say yes or no… it has to stay a secret.”

Oscar frowned.

“Is it about the pack… or about F1?”

Max sighed.

“About the pack. But it also has to do with Red Bull.”

Oscar watched him for a few seconds.

“I can listen,” he finally said. “As long as I don’t get in trouble for knowing… and I can tell Logan.”

The other nodded.

“You can tell Logan. But no one else. It’s not confirmed yet.”

“Okay.”

Max lowered his voice.

"At Red Bull, they're talking about bringing Isack up for 2026. To replace Yuki."

Oscar's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't seem surprised.

"Does Isack know?"

"Yes. And I think Liam knows too because… well, Isack probably told him. They're not exactly hiding the possibility."

The alpha nodded firmly.

"We'll support him," he said. "You can count on it."

Max smiled, grateful.

“Thank you. But the favor isn’t exactly for Isack… It’s for Arvid Lindblad.”

Oscar said nothing. He just looked at him, already anticipating.

“Someone has to take care of him,” Max continued. “He’s a beta pup. He just turned eighteen a few months ago.” He shook his head. “No one has shown any interest yet.”

Oscar continued listening in silence.

“The pack sees it as my ‘responsibility’ because I’m from Red Bull,” he added. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.” He swallowed. “With Charles still so agitated… after going from four pups to none in less than a year… and seeing how he treated Ollie… condescendingly, indifferently toward the betas… I’ve finally convinced him to go to couples therapy. I’m not comfortable with some of his attitudes.”

Oscar briefly remembered Max and Charles in their early days. A couple that seemed solid, almost idyllic. He said nothing.

“I don’t want to drag Arvid into that cycle,” Max finished. “I think he’d be happier with you and Logan. And he already knows Isack and Liam, he gets along well with them.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

“I would never turn down taking care of a pup,” he said firmly. “And Logan is going to love expanding the pack. Having someone else to pamper.”

Max’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

They looked at each other for one last moment. Then, with a shared nod, they said goodbye. Each went his separate way in the paddock, while Las Vegas, indifferent and glittering, continued to illuminate a season that hadn't yet finished breaking them.

Oscar had barely walked a few meters when he caught a whiff of vanilla before hearing the voice.

"Wow," he heard from behind him. "I didn't know you were chatting with Max after the races now, too."

Oscar stopped for a second. He didn't turn around. Lando moved a little closer. His brow was furrowed, his shoulders rigid, with the energy of someone who had just lost something and didn't know where to direct his anger.

"I guess when you get disqualified it doesn't matter who you're seen with anymore, right?" he added, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Oscar took a deep breath.

"I don't want this, Lando."

“What?” he persisted. “Don’t like being reminded that you didn’t score any points today and I’m still in the lead?”

Oscar turned then, looked at him for just a moment. There was no anger in his expression. Only weariness.

“No,” he said. “Wasting time.”

And without waiting for an answer, he turned and kept walking.

Lando stood still, his mouth slightly open, the annoyance still burning in his chest, watching Oscar walk away without looking back.