Chapter Text
Two points. Two fucking points. That was the difference between Max Verstappen and Lando Norris by the end of the last race of the 2025 season, and he couldn't fucking take it. The world turned into static noise, flashes of moments and people and lights, and all Max could see was the P1 number in front of his car. Not enough. It had not been enough.
Logistically, he knew there was little he could do for this title by then. Even if Lando dropped to fourth, McLaren would make sure to order Piastri to do the same, just so they could save the driver's championship, and Max saw that. He wasn't blind to basic race strategy, though he sure as fuck was mad at it.
He had thrown everything he had into the game. After a hellish beginning of the season, he had finally started to fight his way back up. And it had not been enough.
GP was talking to him, and it all hurt even worse because he could see in his face, in all of their faces, that, even for a while, they had believed it too. And it hit him then, out of nowhere, that he had never lost a Championship before. Now that he saw it, it seemed to be the most obvious thing in the world; how could he have missed it in the first place? Verstappen had never had a taste of anything but victory, and now he searched for it desperately, unsure of how to function without it. He wasn't angry, he wasn't even disappointed — it had, after all, been one hell of a season. It was something else completely.
Something Max couldn't name.
The ground shook beneath him, with hurried steps and loud engines, and the cameras, for the very first time, were disinterested in his presence, falling away from his path almost naturally. He didn't have time to marvel at it, not when his eyes fell to a lonely figure standing as tall as he could. In the far corner, looking at the commotion close by, stood Oscar Piastri. Head tilted sideways, working his lower lip between his teeth as he watched his entire team celebrate his teammate. He did not move a muscle; Max couldn't read his expression from afar. And yet, it was obvious enough, he supposed. Wasn't it so similar to the one swallowing him whole right then?
It sank in then: they had lost. Plain and simple.
☆☆☆
Before his eyes, the world exploded in bright orange. Screams and shouts, celebrations all around, and Oscar was stuck. Stuck thinking that, once upon a time — perhaps not even that long ago — that had been his color too. Now, he had no claim to it, and as Abu Dhabi was drenched in it, he found himself slowly retreating.
Because, for Oscar, the problem wasn't now knowing how to lose; it was not knowing how to win. If it would ever be him under those lights. If McLaren would ever even celebrate such a thing.
It was mesmerizing, in a way, watching it all unfold in front of him. The feeling of utter powerlessness he had been acquainted with danced around once more. He saw the love in his mother's eyes and nothing more, felt the comfort of his sister's touch on his back, and yet, couldn't make sense of the feeling in his chest.
It was a weird clash of emotions that Piastri could not name.
The podium was a dream; in the way that dreams seem to blur around the edges and the sounds are all weird. Oscar felt like he was standing way too close to the edge, about to fall out, and took a step back, only to find he had been safe all along. So, a dream. Distorted and unique. One of those moments you remind yourself that you're alive, part of this world, even when everything seems to wave over you, passing by so fast that it's hard to grasp reality.
Then, Oscar made his way to the hotel, after congratulating Lando for what felt like the thousandth time. He still felt the slimy hands of Zak Brown on his back, still tasted the disgusting fake sympathy of his words — it didn't make him feel better.
He closed the door. He sat on the ground, head resting against the wall. He stared ahead without seeing anything. He fist his hands and tried to understand.
☆☆☆
Max wasn't sure what made him do it. Perhaps it was the sudden awareness of being twenty-eight years old and never having lost anything as big in his life. Perhaps, it had been the sight of Zak Brown smirking at Oscar when talking to him. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the situation, and the urge to understand it. Perhaps it was all of the above, plus the fact that he had never before had someone else to talk to.
Because, yes, he had lost the championship. But so had Piastri.
So, he called. At first, he wasn't even sure he had the right number saved under Oscar Piastri, but after checking in the group chat, Verstappen found that he couldn't help himself.
To his eternal surprise, he picked up, voice thin when he asked, 'Yes?' quietly from the other side of the line.
'Let's do something,' Max said, improvising. He didn't know why he had called, and now he was forced to come up with a viable reason.
'I'm sorry, who's this?' Oscar asked, and it was the small edge of amusement in his tone that made Verstappen sure to go on with it. If Oscar Piastri could joke after the hell he had been put through by his own team, then they certainly had something to talk about. To learn from each other.
'Funny,' he muttered, smiling, albeit sarcastically. When Piastri didn't reply, Max sighed, knowing he was falling perfectly for the bait. 'Just the only other guy who would love to go out drinking right now.'
Oscar snorted, 'Lando?'
And Max couldn't help it; he snorted. 'Right. Let me correct myself, then. The only other guys who would love to go drinking right now and forget the past year.'
Oscar hummed. 'I don't want to forget, though. And I don't want to drink.'
Max nearly groaned. He wasn't too sure how to bring up the topic of their mutual heartbreak without being completely drunk, though he supposed he would just have to go for it.
'Okay. Dinner then. My treat.'
Oscar sighed. 'Where? I don't want the cameras catching us there,' and it was a fair assessment. That was one of the things Max respected most about the Australian driver: his utmost need for privacy. Oscar, on his own merit and ground, was rarely involved in any kind of scandal. Of course, McLaren had done its best to change that completely that year, and yet, the Australian seemed to walk out of it completely — or rather, morally — unscathed, just by standing his own ground quietly.
'They're not looking at us, Oscar. They're looking at him,' and it hurt, but it was true. So Max added, 'We can do whatever we want.'
☆☆☆
Oscar pulled at the collar of his shirt for the thousandth time, deeply uncomfortable. What did you wear when the four-time World Champion invited you out for dinner in the most heartbreaking night of your life, anyway?
Oscar wouldn't go as far as saying that they were friends. They were friendly. Perhaps even friendsish. But nothing more than that.
Originally, he had been set on spending the rest of his night — and possibly life — locked in his room. He had no wish nor intention of ever leaving again, mostly because he did not feel like dealing with the flashing cameras snapping a thousand pictures of his crestfallen expression. It was certainly unexpected how hard he was taking it all, and how impossible it was to completely school his expressions right then.
But Max had called, and, sometimes, that is all it takes to trigger the biggest change of your life. Though it didn't yet feel so astonishingly big, Oscar had been aware of the importance. He had to go, even if his stomach was all knotted up. So, he did. And now, he waited impatiently, trying hard not to spin around to stare at the door every single second.
One thing Max had gotten right: the entire world seemed to be so stunned by Lando's accomplishments, that no one blinked twice in his direction. Perhaps he would have appreciated it, if it hadn't come at the cost of his dreams.
Sometimes, when he was specifically feeling like shit, he would remember their past moments. When Lando would laugh against his lips before kissing him silly, like it was the only thing that ever mattered. Like the twinkling of Oscar's eyes was the most precious thing he had ever seen. And then, Canada. And then, Monza. And then, Singapore. And then, McLaren putting Piastri second even while he led the fucking championship. And then, Lando's eyes took a little longer to meet his; no one knocked on his hotel door anymore, and the world was falling apart.
It was Oscar's own fault, for believing their messing around could ever be something more. This was Lando Norris, party boy, World Champion. He would never let anything stand in his way, and although Oscar knew he hadn't been the one to push Piastri metaphorically down the steps, he hadn't quite done enough to hold him up, had he? Hadn't even fucking tried.
Mixing his half-finished drink with a straw, Oscar wondered what he would have done in Norris's position, though he supposed he already knew. Never, in a million years, would he have left him for dead like that. Not with the team. In the end, it all came down to that: Lando might have smiled at him, might have liked their fight, but he had won also because of McLaren's choice. Not only, but also. Not that Piastri didn't remember every single mistake he had made, oh God, how he remembered them. When he closed his eyes, between Lando and him, and all of his crashes and mistakes, it was hard to fall asleep.
Even more so when, deep down, he was hoping for a knock. But Norris never again came looking for Oscar anywhere.
He wasn't sure if it was mercy — perhaps Lando saw their hooking up as cruel when it was so obvious that Piastri was head over heels for him.
Truly, Oscar didn't care. Or, rather, he did care, but was trying not to. The fight was over, the championship won, and now he was left with the stupid hope of bringing back their arrangements. He knew it was foolish. Lando loved him very dearly, just not enough to leave everything else. And Oscar didn't even want that anyway.
He was so deep into those thoughts, the dancing memories of their kisses and laughter, of better times, of his mistakes, of the wrenching feeling of knowing, just by looking into Lando's eyes, that what they had was over, that he startled wildly when Max set a hand on his shoulder.
'Shit,' Oscar muttered under his breath as he got up, Max's surprised grin illuminating his whole face. Perhaps Oscar had drunk more than he had anticipated, seeing as his first thought was how beautiful Max was. At first, he wanted to laugh; how had he never noticed that before? Then, the answer to the question came, and the laughter fell away. Because you were too busy only looking at Norris. And really, look where that had gotten him. He made a face, 'Hey.'
Max blinked at him for a moment, amusement dancing on his face. 'Hey, Oscar.' Had he ever called him that before? Had he? Surely. It was just that, suddenly, Oscar couldn't remember one single interaction between them, had no fucking idea how to act.
It was just his name, for fuck's sake. He was overreacting. Piastri was really good at that; overthinking as well. He was merely better at not showing that. 'You're late,' he said instead. Because he was fucking stupid.
Max didn't take it personally, though, not like he had expected. The older driver only shrugged, 'Or you're early.'
Oscar made a face at him. Yes, he had been early. He was anxious and hadn't been able to stand in the hotel waiting for time to pass, so what? He hated how Max seemed to read all of that in his face. Out of all the people to read him, really. Not even Lando had been capable of making out his micro-reactions like that. Though it might just be an exaggeration, perhaps Oscar had been feeling everything too intensely to expect anything different from Verstappen.
'Yeah. Or that,' he said, awkwardly. Max sat down in front of him, smart blue eyes following every single one of his movements. He wasn't even sure why he was so bothered, truly. That was Max, and this was just dinner.
Max pointed his chin at the glass in front of him, 'I thought you didn't want to drink.' Oscar nearly cursed him for it; he had hoped Verstappen would let it slide. Rookie mistake, really, one he was quickly learning from.
'I've changed my mind. Perhaps I do want to forget.'
Max scrunched his nose at him, and Oscar? Oscar laughed, unsure of what was so funny about the sight, simply incapable of helping himself. Verstappen observed him then — and that was the word too, "observed," eyes sharp in his whole face, cutting through every single one of his features with care, like a painting he was thinking of doing. Oscar shook his head a bit, trying to dissipate the illusion — brush or knife, it didn't matter.
'Me too, mate,' Max said, suddenly, snapping his eyes elsewhere. Oscar felt the loss, unexpected and wild. He reached for the glass once more; Max pretended not to see it, Oscar pretended it wasn't a big deal.
He wasn't a big drinker, and, by the way that Verstappen was quietly watching him from time to time, he knew that too. He wanted to kick him. Ask him to stop. But he wouldn't, not ever, that would be kinda rude and— 'Stop.' Oscar arched a brow at his own reaction.
Huh.
Max blinked at him. Twice. Before laughing loudly. 'How much easier do you think your life would have been if you had just told Zak Brown that?' It was a cruel joke, just not one pointed directly at him.
So Oscar smiled. Not quite ready to laugh yet. 'Do you know this place, or…?'
Max shrugged, his entire body melting into the expensive chair. Oscar watched, a bit mesmerized, feeling his own body wound tight. 'Nope.' He said nothing else, happy to watch Piastri scramble for something else to say, to break the silence.
'Cool.' Max laughed once more, and Oscar grimaced at him. 'You're an asshole. I know you're doing this on purpose.'
And Verstappen? He merely shrugged. 'You scrunch your nose when you're thinking really hard of what to say.' It was so out of pocket, that Oscar only stared. 'Like you're doing right now.' He immediately relaxed his face and Max chuckled.
'Okay, Max,' and the other driver seemed to startle at his name, like he hadn't quite expected it to escape Oscar's lips so casually. He hadn't expected it either; it had just happened, 'What's up?'
'Nothing's up. We lost the title.' A blink and one single shoulder lifted, like it was so banal that it didn't deserve a deeper reaction than that. And Oscar snorted loudly.
Yeah, right.
'And?' He didn't trust it, not for one second. There was a reason Max had called him there. He already knew the restaurant itself had nothing to do with it, but otherwise, he did not know much.
'What do you mean "and," Oscar? You're drinking like your life depends on it. And I've never seen you drinking like this before.'
He let it slide how Max had hardly seen him do much. 'It's one drink. Don't ignore my question.'
Max smirked, 'You didn't ask me anything.'
Right. So he hadn't. Damn. Oscar cleared his throat and Max kept on smirking, clearly delighted. 'Why did you call me?'
He saw the shift then, clear as day on Max's face, he saw the slight slump of his shoulders that should have been imperceptible. 'I don't know, mate. Never lost before, have I?' It was so outrageous that Oscar had no choice: he had to laugh.
And, as he did, he saw Max's expression shift once more, frown disappearing almost immediately. 'Well, then. You invited the wrong person, Verstappen. I hadn't even fought for it before this season.'
Max shook his head, 'I don't think I did,' and then, as if he hadn't just said the wildest thing ever, Max continued, 'Anyway, should we order?'
☆☆☆
Out of all the possibilities for that night, Max had never anticipated being so amused. It was supposed to be a shitty night all around; he had never expected that losing a Championship wouldn't pull at his insides. And, it did. Of course, it did. It was just that, unexpectedly, it wasn't the only thing on his mind.
There was a lingering sadness behind Piastri's eyes, one that had been spreading more and more after the summer break. Max tried not to pay much attention to the other drivers, they were rivals and he had no business getting close. But Oscar was so… intriguing. The whole mess with McLaren was beyond wild for him, and Verstappen couldn't even imagine a world where he would react as Piastri did. Against his own will, he caught himself looking, desperate to make sense of the Australian, seeing in his sleeves all the emotions the world claimed he didn't have.
It was intriguing. And Max was intrigued. A bit mesmerized as well, though that didn't seem to be important.
Oscar was watching him too. Max would give it to him: he was sneaky about it, and he would never have caught it if not for the fact that he was doing the exact same.
There was a secret there, in the corner of his eyes, in the tight smile he showed to the world. He talked around it, drove around it too, like it didn't matter. Max leaned forward, slowly, biting his lower lip. Oh, he wanted to know. He wanted to know so much that it scared him.
Max Verstappen didn't care; he had never quite developed the ability to give a fuck. He didn't care about his rival's life, even less so about drivers he wasn't even sure he could call his friends.
But, fuck, curiosity was getting the best of him. If he wasn't so sure that Oscar would immediately shut it down, Max would have asked him straight out what was making him frown so much, where did the blinding sadness come from. It wasn't only the title, it couldn't be.
Instead, he let Oscar talk; by his second drink, his cheeks were flushed and the awkward silence was less frequent — Max caught himself nearly missing them. At the end, he sighed sadly, eyes unfocused for a second before he shrugged. 'It's a weird feeling. Right?'
Verstappen slowly brought his chin down, in quiet acquiescence. Then, he was talking, before he could even process the words, 'What are we even supposed to do now? Celebrate with him?'
He wasn't against the ides. The thing was: Max liked Lando. He did, truly. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to accept his invitation and go out to party and celebrate. Max had nothing to celebrate; he had fucking lost.
'What do you mean?' Oscar asked, tilting his head a bit.
'Well, Lando's invite. We couldn't… I mean, I felt weird going. So.'
He saw the flash of hurt in Piastri's face — it disappeared one second later, and although even Max could have missed that one, the way his shoulders were suddenly tense would have given him away.
'Oh. That.' But his voice was thin. Broken.
'Oscar—' He was about to ask, to break his number one rule. Verstappen had boundaries, lines he would never cross with anyone that even grazed at his career. And Oscar Piastri was, naturally, all over it. The same respect and distance Max kept from the engineers and mechanics from his team, he kept with the other drivers. There were some who had — even if momentarily — crossed that line, once or twice, though he disliked thinking about it. Those times were gone, and Verstappen wasn't there to play around, so he stepped back. Always.
Except right then, he was literally leaning forward, hungry for information that should, ultimately, be useless to him.
Thankfully, — though he still felt a drowning sense of disappointment at it — Piastri knew a thing or two about crossing lines and privacy. So he brushed him off, shaking his head firmly, just like Max had thought he would. What he hadn't anticipated, though, was the quiet invite that came afterwards.
'I think we should leave. Should we leave?' And he left it like that, up in the air, for Max to make sense of it.
He twisted his head to the side, doing what he had been doing all night: watching Oscar so closely, he was sure the Aussie was about to physically shake him out of it. He liked it, though, how attentive he was to Max's observing, almost like trying to make sense of it without ever even acknowledging it. Kind of a mess, really. Messy, messy situation they were in. He supposed he couldn't expect anything different when it came to Piastri, and yet… He had, in a way.
Perhaps fewer emotions sprawled all over his face. Every single person who had ever accused him of being emotionless hadn't been watching closely enough. Or it was just Max, watching him way too closely.
'Are you ditching me, mate?' Max asked, smirk firmly set on his lips.
And Oscar? He laughed. There was a heaviness to it, as if it clung to him despite how hard he tried to avoid it; but it was a laugh. And Max would take it.
'I just can't tell what you want from me,' he asked, shrugging, more comfortable than Verstappen had seen him the whole night. The blush on his cheeks made him think those drinks were working quickly through his system; and that he shouldn't be paying that much attention anyway.
He could respect the question, not many people would have asked it outright. Or, rather, not many people would have asked Max Verstappen outright. And still, there Piastri was, pretty eyes on his face, gauging his every expression for an answer.
And so Max offered only what he had, only what he could — and what usually he wouldn't willingly give to anyone that easily. The truth. 'No. No, me neither,' and because in for a penny, in for a fucking pound, he asked, 'What's up with you and Lando?'
Because he could see the tensing shoulders, the hurt in his expression. And, fuck him very much, he wanted to know.
Oscar made a face at him. 'I thought we were supposed to forget about the championship?' It came out as a question.
Max shrugged, 'I'm not asking about the championship.'
Silence lingered then, neither of them moving, a clear game that Max was unsure of the rules — but wanted to win regardless.
'No.' Oscar finally broke the silence, so suddenly and firmly that it would have startled anyone else. But it was Max in front of him.
Verstappen arched a brow. 'No?'
Oscar shook his head. 'No.'
No. He wanted to laugh. What, that was the second time Piastri had said it, straight at his face, no problem at all. Had repeated it! Ha!
He knew how Oscar drove, — he knew how all his rivals drove, that was, after all, his job — with a fearlessness Max had rarely encountered in his life. He had heard the radios, had seen Oscar interacting with most of the grid, had heard the interviews, and still, for all his strengths, that one seemed to lack. Perhaps his view was being tainted by the situation with McLaren that year, but Max was nearly sure he had never seen Piastri speak so strongly his mind. To him, out of all the people.
He couldn't help but find it amusing. Weirdly endearing as well.
So he put his hands up. 'Alright. No, then. Should we get some dessert?'
'I—' Oscar blinked at him. 'Whatever. Do you want any?'
What a weird question. Max nearly laughed, holding it back in the last possible second when he realized it had been a genuine question. 'Oh.' Fuck, when was the last time he had been caught by surprise so many times in a row? Years, at least. 'Sure, mate, but I was…' Max frowned. 'Asking you.'
'As you wish,' Oscar said, a fleeting look passing his face as he glanced at the menu options.
'See, no, that's not—' Max stopped, wanting to laugh once more for no reason at all. He wasn't even sure what was happening. 'I don't even know if you like sweets.'
'I like 'em,' he said, too quickly for him to actually believe it. 'It's fine. Just not a huge fan. Have some specific tastes, that's all, so. You choose.'
And Max simply could not help himself. 'What?' Piastri only shrugged, not too bothered. 'What do you want, Oscar?'
He shrugged once more. 'I'm fine with whatever.'
'Okay…' Max nodded. Then he repeated, 'What do you want, Oscar?'
'I said I'm—' But Max cut him off.
'"Fine with whatever." Yes, I heard you, but that was not my question, so. What do you want, Oscar?'
It was the genuine confusion on his face that made his chest tighten. Fuck, what was even happening right then?
'Doesn't matter. They don't have it, so. You pick.'
'Is this, like, common?' He asked, staring at him without blinking for a moment, trying to fit that piece of Oscar into the puzzle he was slowly building. 'It's dessert, mate. I'm not picking what you eat…?' It ended up sounding a bit like a question.
'Yes, alright. Whatever. The chocolate fondant, then,' he seemed borderline pissed, and Max was terribly confused.
'Do you want it, though?' He asked, perhaps to piss him off a little bit more. Who knew, he might make more sense when mad?
'Yes! Whatever, Max. Yes.'
But Max was laughing, shaking his head. 'No, you don't. This is weird, mate.'
Oscar was glaring at him by then, 'What's your problem?'
Max threw his hands up, stuck between genuine confusion and bright amusement. 'I should be the one asking you that!' Oscar grimaced at him — scrunched his nose too. 'Don't you know what you like?'
'Yes.' Nothing more than that. Max supposed his smirk wasn't helping, but oh well.
'Then, what's the deal here?'
'I just didn't expect you to ask!' Piastri finally said, clearly annoyed at the insistence.
'I'm sorry,' he said, before shaking his head, 'What?'
'Could you stop saying that?' He asked, a bit through his teeth, and, fuck, Max was having fun.
'Stop saying what?' He shot back, as lost as he had been since the beginning of that conversation.
'Yes,' Oscar replied, making him even more confused.
'Yes, what?!' He said, while laughing.
'Yes,' Oscar nodded. When he noticed Max's puzzled expression, he smiled a bit, before explaining. 'I mean, stop saying "what." So, when you said… Whatever. You get it.'
Max wasn't too sure he got it. But okay.
'My question still stands,' he said, deciding to leave the confusing aspect of Oscar's request in the past.
'About Lando?'
Max frowned, 'About dessert.'
'Right. He's usually the one who orders it, seeing as he likes it a lot, so.' Max was skipping over the implications of that sentence, because he still heard the firm no from earlier, landing just on the outrageous part of that statement.
'So, you don't? You don't like any kind of sweets?'
Oscar seemed to think for a second. 'I do. Obviously. I just… didn't expect you to ask…? People don't ask. That's all.'
Max arched a brow. 'People ask. That person didn't. People ask, Oscar.'
'Whatever,' he muttered under his breath.
'I'm asking,' Max repeated, wanting it to be crystal clear because what the fuck? People don't ask?!? What kind of people was Oscar hanging out with? That didn't even care to ask him if… Or what he…? Oh, it was weird.
It was so weird.
'Okay. I like ice cream, but they don't have it. So.' It was nearly defiant and Max liked it. He was losing his mind, sure, but he liked it.
'Okay,' he mimicked, earning himself a badly contained grin, 'Let's find somewhere that does, then.'
Oscar didn't even react. 'But you don't want that.'
'Mate, it's ice cream. Everyone wants ice cream.'
And yet, he didn't seem as convinced. 'No. Let's just order from here.'
And because Rome wasn't built in a fucking day, Max sighed. 'I want ice cream. I do. Now, get your ass up, and let's go.'
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to get him ice cream because Oscar wanted it and had asked for it and that was it. But it was obvious Piastri wouldn't be standing up for that, so. He doubted he believed Max anyway, but he didn't give him any chance to think it over, calling for the check in a heartbeat.
☆☆☆
Oscar literally couldn't hold back the satisfied sigh that left his lips. Perhaps he had drunk more than he should have, but the ice cream was fucking delicious. The stars were lazily blinking above their heads and Abu Dhabi was as hot as one would have expected. And Oscar, despite everything, was happy.
With his ice cream, mostly.
He had been so focused on it, that he momentarily forgot that Verstappen was walking right beside him, startling the shit out of him when he said, 'I just want to make it very clear that I think it's weird you didn't tell me about the ice cream.'
'I told you about the ice cream,' Oscar shot back, ignoring Max's cackling at scaring him. Asshole — but he was smiling too.
'Actually, I would say I persuaded that information out of you,' he said and Oscar laughed openly.
'Persuaded is a very strong word.'
'It's the right one,' he didn't say anything at that because Max was already way too cocky about the whole situation. Oscar shouldn't have said anything anyway. It made him feel slightly bad, because now it looked like everyone in his life hated him when that wasn't the case at all. It was just that he was usually the one asking what other people wanted. He would eat whatever, even if it wasn't his preference, it wasn't that big of a deal.
But Verstappen was acting like it was the end of the world. It would have been amusing if it weren't so mortifying.
'It's just ice cream, mate,' he said.
Max scoffed, 'Exactly. It's just ice cream. Why not ask for it?'
'I don't want it that much.'
But Max only stared him down, clearly remembering how happy he had been when ordering it. 'But you do want it.' He countered and… Yeah. Yeah, okay, he did.
It just didn't seem that urgent in his mind. He could deal with not having what he wanted, so why not prioritize what Lando wanted? For example! Obviously. It wasn't only about Lando — although…
No. He wasn't going there.
'I was just being polite. I can eat whatever, it's not that deep.
'So can I. It's not about that.' Max shot back so quickly it was almost like he had anticipated Oscar's response.
'What is it about then? Because this is a rather long conversation to discuss fucking dessert, Max!'
'You don't have to be polite! That's what this is about. For fuck's sake, Oscar, you just lost the fucking title! You lost it, to your teammate, partially because of your team's stand! The choices they made! And you're not even mad.'
'I'm mad. It doesn't mean I have to be impolite about it.'
'No, Oscar. It doesn't mean you have to be polite about it. Fuck them, for what they did.' But Oscar cringed away from the words. Oh, yes, it had been hell. All those choices that seemed to harmlessly be made at the worst possible moment. All the rules that only seemed to help Norris. He was aware of it, he wasn't fucking stupid. But getting angry and being mean wouldn't help him fix shit.
'There's no point,' he said, smiling sadly at Max.
'Oh, there's a point,' and when Oscar only arched a brow at him, a silent question, Max laughed. 'You get your ice cream, mate. Or you go and get it for yourself.'
It was so fucking stupid that he had to laugh. He had to. And Oscar had the impression he would keep laughing forever, basking in that moment. Laughing and laughing and laughing.
Right up until Max kissed him.