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Oscar had always been phenomenal at hiding his emotions when he wanted to. He wasn’t emotionless or anything, just…different. On camera, he was extra careful to not be overly expressive nor give the fans anything to accuse him of. But today he struggled to do so. You couldn’t convince him that Carlos hadn’t seen him after 8 blue flags, even if it had been 3, he would’ve been mad, but 8? Oscar had never hated Carlos, but he definitely hadn’t been super close. He truly did try his best to hide his anger, allowing himself to be annoyed and frustrated, just not angry.
He made it clear that he was quite apparent to the media that the impact had likely affected the rest of his race, even if it hadn’t been the main reason he DNF’d. Oscar had his media cut short when he started talking about how Carlos was fully at fault, and should be penalized as such. His media team scolded him the second the cameras cut, but instead of listening like normal, he just went back to his driver’s room for the rest of the race. They didn’t bother him, unsure how to act as he’d never had this sort of reaction before.
Even after the race, Oscar was extra quiet throughout the meetings. He’d congratulated Lando on 1st, but ignored him otherwise. No one had the guts to confront him, he’d never been this angry before. Lando tried his best to confront him multiple times, but eventually backed off at seeing how utterly tense he was. He knew Oscar well enough that he needed to be left alone, his entire body tense, jaw clamped shut, and eyes focusing on nothing in particular.
Oscar just went to his hotel, dropping his stuff by his bed, before going straight for the shower. When Oscar got overstimulated, he tended to need some quiet time away from everyone. He stripped off his sweaty team gear, tossing it on the floor and getting in the shower immediately. The water was freezing at first, eventually calming to a nice warm temperature. He leaned his forehead against the cold tile, his breathing having become shaky. It took him longer than it should’ve to recognize that he was having an anxiety attack, having been so stressed and overworked all day. He instinctively wrapped his arms around himself, nail digging into his biceps harshly enough to bruise. It was the typical distraction to get himself out of an attack, but it didn’t work.
The lights were too bright, illuminating the all white bathroom enough to be uncomfortable. The sound of the water hitting his body and the floor of the shower drummed in his ears like applause, making his head spin. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing still ragged and nails still digging into his arms. He wouldn’t notice the blood mixing with water running down his arms for a while. Oscar ended up pressing most of his body in the corner of the shower, trying to keep the pressure constant.
The knock on the bathroom door earned a whine out of Oscar that he couldn’t hear. The door creaked open, with George peaking in. He’d let himself into the hotel when Oscar didn’t answer. He let himself into the bathroom now as well, closing the door behind him gently. Even over the noise of the shower, he could hear Oscar’s ragged breathing, seeing his form pressed against the wall through the frosted glass doors of the shower. George quietly gathered Oscar’s clothing thrown about, folding them nicely before setting them on the counter. He took off his own clothes, folding them and setting them next to Oscar’s.
He slid open the shower door carefully, settling behind Oscar before closing the door.
“Oscar, can you hear me?”
As expected he didn’t get an answer, just forced to watch Oscar tremble against the shower wall. George muttered a quiet ‘here goes nothing’ before sliding a hand ontop of Oscar’s where it buried into his own bicep. A harsh wheeze escaped the Aussie, but he didn’t react otherwise. George had seen the blood already. He didn’t force Oscar to remove his fingernails just yet. He just pressed his hand onto Oscar’s a little more, hoping to get his attention. His fingers twitched, but it stir him from his attack. So George took it further, lightly pressing his body into Oscar’s back, looping his free arm around his torso. He was very carefully to not press his penis against Oscar, not wanting him to associate being utterly vulnerable with sex.
Oscar’s hand finally let go of his bicep, instead latching onto George’s hand. The other bicep was still trapped under Oscar’s opposite hand, but that was an issue for later. The Aussie’s shaky breathing turned into a sob, now just fully crying into the wall of the shower. Oscar and George had been together long enough for them both to know that Oscar didn’t cry. Not at funerals, not at sad movies, not at the news of death. But when he couldn’t handle the pressure of the world, and he was forced to his most vulnerable, that was when Oscar could cry. And when he did, he’d sob like he hadn’t cried in decades. He did so even now, tears mixing with the shower water as it ran down the wall. George stayed still, forehead pressed into the back of Oscar’s neck and arms still stable around him.
They stayed like that for a little under an hour, after the water had long turned cold. George didn’t care how uncomfortable the water was, nor how pruny their fingers were. He just needed to stay there for Oscar. Once Oscar’s sobs quieted to quiet but shaky breathing, George moved faintly, resting his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder.
“How about we go dry off and get dressed? We’ll have a quiet night together, okay?”
It took almost a full 30 seconds before he gave a nod, pushing himself off the wall. Oscar didn’t wince as he finally took his free hand off his arm, nor did he react much at seeing the identical gashes on either bicep. George held back his reaction, just keeping his hand intertwined with Oscar’s as he shut off the shower and led them out of it. George quickly dried himself off, before helping Oscar, given that the Aussie looked like he’d fall asleep standing up. Once dry, the Brit settled Oscar onto the lid of the toilet, letting him sit while he cleaned the gashes on his arms. George was very precise as he cleaned the cuts and covered them in a few different sized bandages. He barely stood up fully to admire his work before Oscar’s head slumped forward into his stomach. Usually the Aussie’s warm breath down that far had much less innocent intentions, which was why George shuddered faintly. Instead he helped Oscar up, taking his hand once more as he brought him into the bedroom. The last thing George wanted to do was get hard when Oscar was suffering in front of him. He rarely broke down like this, the last thing he needed was to see his boyfriend taking pleasure in it.
It took a few minutes, but George got them both in some of their favorite (and most comforting) clothing. Oscar wore one of George’s Mercedes shirts, a favorite due to how large it was, alongside a set of sweatpants and some thick socks. George had one of Oscar’s older McLaren shirts, stretched out yet still a close fit, paired with just his boxers and a tall set of socks. Oscar half flopped onto the bed once George was done fussing over his socks, already falling asleep. But the Brit got into bed next to him, shuffling him to sit in his lap. George sat cross legged while Oscar sat with his legs hung over one of his boyfriend’s thighs, arms looped around his neck.
“Stay awake for me, Osc. We’ve gotta talk for a little, then you can sleep.”
Oscar let out a quiet whine, eventually resting his head on his partner’s shoulder, eyes half closed. George didn’t force eye contact, instead wrapping his arms around Oscar’s body.
“One bad race doesn’t send you over the edge like that, we both know that. Is this about how this season is going so far?”
“…mhm.”
“Care to elaborate?”
A moment of silence made George swear he wasn’t going to get an answer tonight. He wasn’t mad, far from it. Especially when Oscar did finally talk, even if it was slurred from exhaustion.
“I finally had a good season last year. Podiums left and right, battling Max and Lando for World Champion. And now I’m stuck at 5th if I’m lucky.”
While George wanted to remind him that he hadn’t been doing too well either, having stayed at the same position for basically the whole race, he stayed quiet.
“Lando gets praised for everything he does, and I barely get a ‘good job’ when I make podium.”
“Lando’s gotten a lot of hate this season too. He went from a world champion battling the middle cars.”
“Except he actually got a world championship. I’m just the teammate that peaked once and won’t get there ever again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do when I’m at a team that doesn’t care. I can’t win anything with a shit car and a team that despises me.”
George wasn’t sure he had a comeback for that. He wasn’t sure about the internal situation of McLaren, but based on the amount of times Oscar had come back frustrated after races or meetings, he figured it wasn’t good.
“Well screw them then.”
“…what?”
Oscar finally picked his head up off his partner’s shoulder, finally willing to make eye contact. George made sure to keep the contact comfortably, not wanting to make Oscar uncomfortable with too much.
“I can’t fix you having a shitty car, but I know that a bad car doesn’t make you a bad driver. You drove in Alpine for Hell’s sake, and you still did great.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Fine, I’m just saying that maybe it’s just a bad season.”
“That sounds like friendly fire to me.”
George rolled his eyes, surprisingly not annoyed at the dig at his own career, instead playfully shifting Oscar slightly.
“I’m not gonna bother continuing my cringy monologue, do you feel better now?”
“I’m not crying in a hotel shower, so I’d say yes.”
“Good.”
George wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s waist before dragging them both to lay down. They both giggled quietly, up to their typical interactions once more. George pulled Oscar into him, now pressed against his back. George knew he was tall, but the difference between himself and Oscar always seemed exaggerated when they laid in bed. Regardless, he nuzzled into the back of his head, happily letting his breathing even out with the scent of Oscar’s shampoo. The Aussie had shuffled the blankets ontop of them, now both snuggled closely under the thick blankets.
“I love you, Georgie.”
“Absolutely never call me that again.”
“Your no fun.”
George could basically see his pout in the dark.
“Fine, but not in public.”
“Works for me, Georgie.”
“I love you Oscar.”
A low hum escaped Oscar, signaling that he was basically asleep already. George started nodding off as he recognized that he wasn’t getting a response.
“I love you too, George.”