Archive of Our Own

2028

Oscar essentially collapses into the crook of his neck and Logan cherishes the heat there - warm and familiar yet simultaneously enticing and mind-blowing. 

“Congrats, babe,” Logan unclenches his hand out of the bedsheets and brings it to the nape of his lover’s neck - tickling the fine, yet mattered threads of dark hair that lies beneath his fingertips.

The Australian makes a muffled noise as thanks.

Logan huffs a laugh, his body sweltering in the heat and yet makes no complaint. Tonight is about Oscar, after all. A second World Championship. It’s more incredible than unbelievable - since they were kids Logan always knew Oscar was destined for greatness, and now, after all these years he’s gone and done it.

Twice. 

His lover’s groan of effort as he feels him try to move - push himself up is what distracts him from the captivities of his own mind.

He meets the other’s intense gaze.

“I need to-” Oscar is puffing, still recovering from his own aftershocks after the brilliance of their shared night, and makes a crude’ jerk-you-off’ gesture with his hand.

It humours him as much as warms his heart.

“It’s okay - you’re exhausted, Osc-” he tries because a blind man could see it. Besides they’ve done this song and dance before. After - what - six years of being together, Logan knows there will be a next time - one where Oscar can probably friggen’ suck his soul out his body as consolation for one missed previous orgasm.

After the gruelling Yas Marina circuit, the title battle with Max for the championship, and the success as the papaya McLaren passed the chequered flag first, then all the press and winning shenanigans, and then the party and finally what they’ve spent the last twenty minutes doing, Oscar probably couldn’t even stand on his two feet by now.

“No,” Oscar places a sweaty, champagne and come-sticky hand onto his chest. “I’m not a quitter, plus - I want to.”

And yeah, Logan knows that. Whatever the Australian wants, whatever he deems most important to him at the current time, the Australian takes. Takes, and takes, and takes. 

It’s a beautiful thing.

“I know that,” he shuffles himself up onto his elbows with a placating smile - the duvet sticking to the bare expanse of his back where his Haas team shirt has ridden up. “But, we both need to shower and I think if you get me off, neither one of us will have the ener-”

His words are cut off as a spark of pleasure runs up the length of his being - the flagging erection he willed into complicity stirred once again to life. 

“Fuck,” he dips his head back with a moan. He’s already so close, especially with the tequila-whatever-the-fucks Lando shoved down his throat at the McLaren afterparty, and when he finishes, it’s perhaps the second-best thing he’s experienced that night.

However, he is proven right when Oscar slumps halfway down their double-king bed - too tired to even move up towards the pillows. 

He spends a second recovering, before nudging a weak knee at the other. “Shower?”

And he doesn’t get a response. 

Oscar’s passed out.

He can’t hold in a fond giggle at the younger’s antics. Classic.

Still, that doesn’t excuse his own state - he’s still covered with dry sweat from the race, somebody dropped a drink all over him earlier and now he's sweaty again. 

Reheated sweat? He ponders as steam billows up around him - scrubbing off today’s grit and grime. Is that even a thing?

He finds it grosses him out to think about it, so he doesn’t and allows his brain to succumb to numbness as he thoroughly cleans all parts of himself - however, does it quickly. If Guenther Steiner were here, which would just be weird and probably violate some ‘safe-workplace’ contract point, he’d probably comment (in his thick German accent) about how he ‘washed faster than he drove today.’

Yeah. P13 had been pretty dismal - especially with Pedro Clerot, who has only been in Formula One for two seasons, placing three positions above him. 

If Logan thinks about it hard enough, this is really only his third season too. He really shouldn’t be expected to do too much more than the Brazilian, even if his rookie season was the same time as Oscar.

Oscar who’s completed his sixth season this year. Two of them ending in World Championships.

Yeah. He doesn’t want to be thinking about this right now. 

Besides, Guenther is not next year’s problem. Guenther won’t be his Team Principal because Haas was a one-year-contract-stroke-of-luck. Something that got him back into Formula One before Alex could pull the strings at Williams. 

Which is… another stroke of luck. That despite being teammates for only two years, Alex gave enough of a shit (or felt pitiful enough) that in his new position as joint Team Principal, he’s decided to take chance on him.

Fuck. This is supposed to be Oscar’s night. And even though his boyfriend is deep in slumber (and not dead - he checked) and therefore couldn’t know Logan is thinking like this again, Logan still feels the guilt rush in.

It suddenly feels too stuffy in here - the pure heat radiating off the Australian’s unclothed body not making it any better.

So, to escape, he creeps out onto the penthouse balcony - cold feet on grand lavish tiles - the soft fabric of his nightgown barely making a dent in the bite of the desert’s cold. 

He allows himself to take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.

Perhaps now is the best time to have a mini-mental-breakdown. No one can see him - perched up here on top of the world. Oscar booked the highest room, on the highest skyscraper. Here, he is taller than everyone, and yet with the stars above him, he still feels so small.

Envy. It’s a cruel thing sometimes.

Especially to be envious of the person, Logan loves most.

He can’t show it. Well, he tries not to, although he’s sure Oscar notices. The stark difference in their professional lives is almost laughable, but even at the best of times, he can’t find a way to smile about it. 

He wants to win too.

He wants a championship, he wants to prove to his family, to America, to the world - to Oscar and mostly himself that he can win. He wants to hold a winner’s trophy high above his head - have one that can be called his, like Oscar’s several ones. 

He doesn’t want his best-ever finish to be a scrappy podium barely earned after eleven cars crashed out in the rain at Zandvoort. He especially doesn’t want to be booted out of Formula One for lack of performance. 

Not again.

He loves the man Oscar is, he loves the man he’s become. How every day it feels like Logan is watching him grow - from being able to fit ‘a new personal record’ of thirteen grapes in his mouth, to a risky but perfectly executed overtake on the outside of a seemingly boring turn. When he rises up to an irritating interviewer’s questions instead of letting it go without a fight, but now finds better ways to resolve issues with other drivers when battles go beyond the track. Sometimes Logan watches him shave in the early morning and remembers the days Oscar would lament his ‘inability’ to grow facial hair - comparing his smooth face to Logan’s three-day stubble. 

Times have changed since then.

Even outside of their little world together, whether here in this penthouse, in either one of their three homes around the world, or inside the palace they’ve built together for their shared dreams and hopes and their future of the relationship.

Perhaps the second biggest news outside of Oscar’s world championship, is that Max Verstappen is retiring tonight. Faintly, he can hear the thundering bass of whatever farewell party RedBull is still throwing him - even in these early hours.

Max is leaving on a somewhat sombre note. Tonight he could have won, but Oscar got him on lap fifty-three. But still, the Dutchman has never cared much for records - having won all his titles consecutively until Oscar swooped in.

Now, Max is leaving the sport similar to Lewis Hamilton. Fighting for a final title, but losing out to the newer, younger, hotshot. Still, Max has mellowed out over the years, now he has a son and a daughter of his own and a ring on his finger. 

He’s leaving happy - ready to raise his children in a way his father never managed to.

He’s glad he told Oscar not to look at social media till tomorrow morning - the Verstappen fans, the Army of Orange, are probably raging online.

The stars blink up above him. He stares at them - wishing, willing, hoping.

I want to win too.

Before he gets in bed, he heaves Oscar up and tucks him in first. He’s lucky the other is such a deep sleeper. 

Curling around his lover, nose tucked into his hair, he breathes deep.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale.

He’s on the podium. Specks of champagne glisten around him, just like stars in the sky. It trickles down the column of his throat, into the divots of his collarbones under his fireproofs. 

There’s the championship trophy in his hands.

Engraved in the gold reads ‘Logan Sargeant - 2029.’

He’s done it.

He’s won.

Oscar wakes him up without meaning to.

The running shower water hitting tiles repeatedly like the drizzle of a storm on a tin roof, is what brings him back to reality. If he holds on tight enough and focuses hard enough, he can still hear the cheers around him, and taste the victor’s champagne.

What a vivid, strange dream.

He must lie in bed for longer than he thinks because a tap to his foot makes him startle.

“Sleep well?” Oscar’s Australian accent rolls around their hotel room. His voice is still deep from sleep, and his hair is wet from the water - only a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. Logan watches a stray bead drip into the crevice of his collarbone. 

“Yeah,” he hums, affirmative. “You?”

Oscar’s smile is one of victorious, yet there is a tinge of reserve. 

Ah, he must have gone on social media.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he says - to try and distract his boyfriend from his own mind. 

Oscar leans down, pale skin on display as he leans down - caging in Logan’s lower body in one swift action.

He cocks an eyebrow, knowing exactly what his lover needs.

“You ready for another round Mr. Two-Time-World-Champion?”

Oscar blushes crimson, it trickling down from his cheeks to his chest. 

And that’s how their three-month winter break begins.

2029

PRE-TESTING

ENGLAND, LONDON

He hasn’t had that dream since November. 

Partially, Logan is glad because it’s never going to happen, dreaming about the juxtaposition of standing on the top step of the podium contrasted with the failures of his career never ends well. But, he wants it. It all felt so real. The way the humid air felt, the way his sweat smelt, the way the champagne tasted , the way the crowd roared.

It all just felt so real.

But yet, an impossibility. Something out of reach. Something dangerous.

“Loges?” a tilted question grasps him out of the depths of his perilous mind.

“Yeah?” he pants out. He can smell sweat now, but it’s damp on his skin and makes his shirt stick uncomfortably to his (Oscar’s) workout tee. He looks over to his lover, who has stopped his cycling on the exercise bike they have in their home gym and is now looking at him with a lopsided smile laced with concern.

“You okay? You stopped mid-set.”

Ah. Right. Weighted sit-ups.

“Oh, yeah,” he adjusts the medicine ball in his grip flashing the other a sheepish smile. “Lost count.”

“Thought you were calling it quits,” Oscar jabs and Logan rolls his eyes.

Oscar never quits. Everything the Australian wants he chases relentlessly until he takes it, no time for excuses, no matter the cost.

“No way,” he tenses his abdomen as he lowers himself back to the yoga mat stretching the weighted apparatus over his head again to prove it.

When Oscar doesn’t respond, Logan flicks his eyes over to him, making sure to flex his muscles, just a little bit in a way he knows he looks good. The other’s cheeks bloom red. 

“Keep cycling,” he teases, raising himself up again - not immune to the way his boyfriend’s gaze follows his movement.

At the precipice, he sends a sly, somewhat self-deprecating grin. “If you don’t stop gawking, you might just lose the championship to me.”

Sitting in an all too familiar waiting room, Logan doesn’t know whether to lead with a handshake or a hug. His entrance should really be the least of his concerns - he has far greater things to worry about in the grand scheme of things, but as he bounces his knee just to do something he can’t help but catastrophize the consequences of each situation.

He should be professional; so Option A: handshake. But… would that come off as cold? Ungrateful? This is a benevolent opportunity, he should be as gracious as he can be, so then should he go for a hug? Option B has its perks - maybe it presents himself as cool, calm, and collected - everything that everyone in this building doesn’t remember him as, but God it’ll be so awkward if it isn’t reciprocated. But they have known each other for six years at this point so-

“Logan?”

Unable to help himself, he breaks into a smile.

“Alex,” he stands, softened from the way his past teammate looks so genuinely happy to see him.

The Brit immediately wraps him into a hug - as if not a day has gone by since their last race together in 2024. He exhales into it 

The option has been selected for him, then.

When they break away Alex has that same, familiar toothy smile on his face - and newer crow-feet lines at his eyes. 

Logan goes for humour. “Two years training with the big boys really aged you, huh?”

Alex scoffs and pushes him boyishly on the shoulder as they walk towards one of the elevators. “It wasn’t that bad - working with George instead of against him was weird though.”

As the Brit pushes one of the many metal buttons, Logan feels his interest pique. “How is he?” 

“He’s okay,” the other shrugs. “Still doing his thing.”

At the vagueness, Logan wonders if something soured between them - pressure can do that to people. 

“Can’t give away Mercedes’ secrets?” he jokes to ease the rise in the other’s shoulders.

Alex thankfully laughs and they step into the elevator, watching the Williams floors pass by. “No, Toto would have my head. Can’t believe he’s still kicking.”

“Wants that Mercedes Championship one last time before he goes,” Logan muses - 2021 feels forever ago - he was still in F3 then.

“Yeah,” the chime of arrival punctuates his response. “Probably more of a ‘fuck you’ to Horner I reckon.”

The Red Bull Team Principal left the sport at the same time as Max did - albeit far less graciously. Scandals finally caught up to him. Ya’ can’t outrun the truth.

“Well the lineup looks pretty solid this season,” he muses as they finally get to Alex’s office, dipping his head somewhat stoically as the elder offers him a seat. 

“It does,” Alex’s seat squeaks as he bounces into it. “Vesti’s been waiting for a proper contract for a while.”

Logan hums, not knowing how to answer, suddenly feeling quite awkward. What happened to Kimi Antonelli last year was bad. No one inside F1 really talks about it, even if the press ran with it - trying to find the most gruesome photos and plastering them everywhere. 

No one really wants to get their seat that way. A substitution, second-choice, and guilty acceptance after a terrible crash. When he explained these feelings to Oscar, the Australian had just shrugged.

“Everyone has to get their seat somehow,” expressionless in both his voice and face. “It’s the nature of the game.”

‘The game.’ Logan had been horrified his boyfriend had stated it so apathetically. He remembers in McLaren’s driver room they had fought about it - neither willing to change their opinion or stance.

He had been the one to finally back down. Oscar has never been someone who gives up anything.

Luckily, he faked some sympathy to the cameras - Logan had been happy to see that day. Otherwise, the media would have eaten him alive.

“So,” Alex coughs out, drawing him back into the present. 

Logan shifts up in his seat - trying to appear professional and hoping he isn’t failing miserably.

It’s strange like this - foreign. Alex looks far more accustomed to office-type meetings - having been in support roles in two different teams now. Logan doesn’t miss the silver nameplate resting humbly on the desk - ‘Alex Albon, Joint Team Principal.’

It reminds him that no longer is he talking to his past-teammate or an old friend. 

He’s talking to his boss.

Fuck, maybe he should have at least tried Option A in the first place. Or maybe he shouldn’t have immediately commented on the other’s wrinkles.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” he blurts out, genuine but stiff in his delivery.

Alex tilts his head back with a laugh, before turning serious - just like he used to pre-race once the fun and games of anticipatory waiting were over. “You have more in you Logan. I know it. I see it - I saw it back when you first started here. I don’t want you to think you only got this contract because of me, yeah?”

Logan swallows. “Yeah, I know.”

It sounds unsure.

Alex doesn’t mention it.

“You scored a few points in the Haas,” the man hums consideringly, then reanimates. “And the podium at Zandvoort.”

“Yeah,” he can’t help but dip his head, shame tinting his ears pink. It was dumb luck - besides he had only avoided being collateral damage because he was so far back in seventeenth place that over half the grid didn’t sweep him into the barrier like the rest. He didn’t actually get a podium, even if his one bronze trophy shines dull in the midst of Oscar’s several gold and silver ones.

Everyone knew he didn’t really deserve it.

As if reading his mind, Alex leans forward - his dark eyes honest but gruelling. “You deserve this seat. Not because of Oscar, or me, or James, or anyone else. We believe in you.”

Unable to tear his eyes away, Logan just nods in lieu of a proper response.

If they really believed in you, you would have gotten more than a one-year contract, his mind supplies; ruthless. 

He pushes the thought away.

“Welcome back to Williams,” Alex stands, hand offered over the oak wood between them. Logan takes it.

“Good to be home.”

The pinot gris Oscar picked out for them is smooth. They haven’t tried this one before: a waitress they’ve never seen before recommended it with a smile on her face - ‘It’s beautiful - from the fields of Naples.’

Neither of them corrected her. Because that would be rude.

Oscar did crack a smile at him after she went to fetch it though, Logan hid a chuckle in their ironed serviettes. 

Despite it actually being a grigio from Italy , it is good. Oaky aftertaste. Goes down easily.

Oscar extends a hand over their table, fingers warm as they call around his fingers - so different to the frosty London lying below them from their skyline view. “How are you feeling?”

Logan hums in consideration, trying to hide his blush. Oscar can be a romantic at times - in ways he doesn’t even realise. An image of him, upon that podium in Abu Dhabi flashes through his mind; searing from its intensity, its vividness.

“Excited,” he settles on, once the roar of the crowd (the roar of the crowd? Why can he hear an image?-) leaves his ears, leaves them ringing.

Trying to shake the strange burst of emotion, how real it all felt, he takes another sip of his wine to ease the burning sensation in his throat. “How are you feeling?”

Oscar has the most pressure on his shoulders compared to anyone, after all. Two-time World Champion back-to-back - the world will be expecting a third.

Oscar pulls his hand away. Logan tries not to let it hurt as he instead cups his hand around his chilled glass, needing his hands to hold something.

“Okay,” the other has that blank expression on his face - a default, a defence mechanism - a shield to the world around them that Logan knows, after so many years together, is a facade.

He hesitates, waits for his lover to explain, open up - something they have spent so much time working together on. But Logan knows, by the tenseness of his shoulders, by the slight noxious furrow of his brows, that tonight is not the night to push. 

Tomorrow when the day and their minds are clear he can try to reapproach the subject, clasp at an insurmountable pressure he can’t even begin to imagine nor understand.

Warmth finds his fingers again.

“Tomorrow?” Oscar tries, reading his mind and Logan settles with a small, hopefully comforting smile.

“Always.”

And that’s what they say. That’s how they understand each other. Giving space then embracing once more when the dust has settled.

Leaving the restaurant they don’t hold hands. Side by side they walk back to their little London flat, stomachs comfortably full of white wine and exquisite meals - hearts full of their love, their special, quaint, all-powerful love, that they share with each other.

It’s his first real day at Williams.

Well, his second-first day. Well- whatever.

Alex introduces him to his new teammate, Alex.

“This is gonna’ get complicated,” he goes for a joke - the younger Williams driver appeases him.

“You can call me Powell,” Alex, no, Powell stretches out his hand.

“Sargeant,” and he gets, yet again, another chuckle.

“So,” Alex Albon claps his hands together with a smile. “You both should get along well - both born in Miami, both done two years in Williams-”

One and a half, his brain corrects darkly-

“- And we’re all really excited to have you both here with us for the season.”

“Cool,” he says and cringes immediately afterwards. Powell keeps his face blank. Right - there had seemingly been a few contract issues - kinda like Oscar’s entry to Formula One, but then Powell lost the court case.

Ouch.

Seven million years of a Williams contract pay would only begin to reimburse that. He looks over at his past teammate, his now boss, and finds it hard to believe the smiley Brit was the one that led the campaign against Powell - sued him basically to nothing. 

He could never imagine the old Alex being so… ruthless.

Time changes people, he supposes.

Still, he can’t help but miss Pedro. 

So, on his lunch break, he calls him.

“Logan!” the voice is jovial over the phone line. 

Logan feels bad he didn’t call earlier.

“Clerot,” he greets back with a smile, and wonders why for both his most recent teammates he calls them by their surnames. “How are you? How’s Guenther?”

Pedro laughs - bright as always. “He is breaking my balls, man. Unbelievable, this guy.”

At the familiarity of the man he has been around the most for the past two years (except for Oscar perhaps), a sense of relief fills his bones.

He’s been anxious today, he only now realises. For some reason there is this pressure here - returning to Williams, starting this season. A familiar voice always helps him relax - and although he thought Alex would be that, perhaps it was naive to assume his old friend would be as easy to talk to after so many years apart and power dynamics on the table.

Suddenly an image sears his brain - he identifies Alex immediately - looking angry talking to someone tall that isn’t him, but before he can discern their features the image is gone.

“-you?”

Blinking back to reality, he dumbly asks, “Huh?”

“How are you?” Pedro clarifies. “Being back there.”

“I’m,” he forks at his chicken caesar (no dressing or cheese) salad. “I’m okay. It’s weird, but I’ll get used to it.”

“And Alex?”

“Which one?”

“There is two?”

“Yeah, my new teammate-”

“Aha! Yes! Alex Towel, do you like him?”

Logan laughs at Pedro’s barrage of questions and mispronunciation. “It’s Pow -ell.” 

“Não! We call him towel because uh - the slang. Molhada, how do I say in English? Dripping towel?”

“Dripping towel?” Logan repeats absolutely bewildered. 

“No, no, I-” there’s the distinct sound of German yelling in the background. “Alex is boring, that is what I meant. I must go before-”

There’s more yelling.

“The same as ever, hey?” Logan muses. Haas was chaotic all the time. There was a strange type of fun being enveloped by it all.

“Same as ever,” Pedro affirms. “Call if you need.”

“You too,” the same year Logan returned to Formula One after four years of being Oscar’s WAG, a rather positive stint in IndyCar and depression was also Pedro’s rookie season. They developed a bond that way - besides the latter is six years his junior, and it felt like a sort of mentorship formed beyond the camaraderie. 

But the call is over, his lunch break is over, his time of rest and relaxation is over.

He stands up, tossing half of his dogshit, barren salad into the trashcan - time to focus.

He’s anxious as the clock ticks toward noon, the moment everything becomes official.

“What do you think they’ll think?” Logan asks, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. He hadn’t even showered after his workout this morning—too afraid to miss the announcement if they post it early. His hair is still damp with sweat.

“They’ll love you,” Oscar says confidently, barely glancing up from the pan as he stirs the scrambled eggs. Neither of them are fans of scrambled eggs, but they fit the calorie intake plan they’ve been religiously following. It’s also safer than watching Oscar get frustrated trying to make poached eggs again. “Just like I do.”

Logan swallows hard, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter. His return to Williams, after everything that happened last time, feels like a gamble. He remembers the crashes, the headlines that followed him like a shadow, the critics who branded him a failure before he even had a chance to prove otherwise. Now returning, he wonders if the world’s going to greet him with the same sharp edge of disappointment.

The clock strikes noon.

His phone buzzes in his hand, a flurry of notifications flashing across the screen as the official announcement goes live. 

‘Logan Sargeant signs with Williams for the 2029 F1 Season.’ 

His heart leaps into his throat as he scrolls through the first few comments. 

         <This guy again? LMAOOOOO OH BROTHER>

          Likes: 207

        <should’ve stayed out after ‘24>

          Likes: 80

        <What a joke— he only got Haas because they were waiting for clo to get enuf licence points and bcuz stakeholders wanted a fkn american for american ass team. now he just taking up             space>

          Likes: 43

         <I am once again asking for a seat for @LunaFluxa2010 @WilliamsRacing>

          Likes: 159

He winces. It’s just as bad as he feared.

Oscar walks over, glancing at the screen but choosing to stay quiet about it. Instead, he leans down and plants a kiss on the crown of Logan’s head, his lips lingering for just a second longer than usual. 

“You’ll prove them wrong,” his lover hums, his voice resolute, as if it’s not even up for debate.

Logan wants to believe him, wants to shake off the doubt gnawing at his chest. And then, out of nowhere, an image flashes in his mind—champagne running down his face, his body soaked in victory, his fists raised in unrestrained joy and glory. The roar of the crowd rings in his ears as he stands on the top step of the podium, his name no longer followed by failure but by triumph.

It’s gone as quickly as it came, like a half-remembered dream.

Logan exhales slowly, sinking into his chair - a plate of eggs and avocado presented to him with a flourish. Maybe that vision was nothing more than wishful thinking. Or maybe it was something more. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Maybe I will.”

Shoving a few pairs of socks into the tiny bubble of space of his already overflowing suitcase, he restlessly takes a step back to appreciate (and despise) the mess he has made. He should be more used to this - packing - with all the travelling that their careers allows and expects him to do. But once again, he has left it to the last minute, plane already on the tarmac waiting for his arrival.

“Fireproofs?” Oscar yells out from the living room.

Logan eyes the regulatory underwear he has to wear in the car - regular boxers don’t suffice.

“Yeah,” he calls back - taking on the tedious task of now having to close his overflowing suitcase.

Another recommendation from the main room “Charger?”

Logan hisses a curse as he roughly unplugs it from his bedside; shoving it into his carry-on duffel, with a white lie he answers; “Yep!”

And that’s it, he thinks. Keys, keycard, wallet, phone, vitamin supplements. Check, check and check.

“Alright!” he lugs the bag through the arch of their bedroom door. 

Seeing Oscar, a feeling of soft immense comfort immediately washes over him. 

They’ve done this song and dance before -  a million times over. Distance doesn’t mean much to them. They’ve learned to cope with it over the years; now it's more about how they spend the time they do have together and savouring it.

He’s already late. Another minute won’t make much of a difference.

Ditching his bags he walks over to the couch, pressing a chaste kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. “I love you.”

He feels Oscar smile into the kiss and once he has expressed all the feelings jittering inside his ribcage he pulls back - the perfect picture of domesticity.

Oscar runs his tongue flat his front teeth and Logan watches it, desire curling up inside of him - something he definitely doesn’t have time to do anything about. “Toothpaste.”

“Toothpaste?!” he parrots back, meshed between shocked humour and offence. “I brushed my teeth this morning, you asshole.”

Oscar tips his head back in a laugh, it reverberates around the room. “No, Loges, I mean did you remember to pack it?”

Oh.

Oh. 

“-Shit,” he barks out a chuckle and zooms off to their ensuite.

They’ve done this song and dance a million-and-one times before.

Of course, he forgot to pack toothpaste - he always does.

He shoves it into his carry-on, giving Oscar one last peck that goes a moment too long for the tight schedule he has built for himself, and heads towards the door.

“Say ‘hi’ to Texas for me,” Oscar always makes him laugh.

Oscar has never liked COTA - God knows why. Well, in fairness last year, it was the race that lost him first place in the championship, before crawling to get it back in Abu Dhabi.

Logan used to love that track. Well, until last year as well - for an entirely different reason.

“Love you!” he calls out just before he closes the door.

His phone dings in the Uber. 

       <I love you too. Happy Valentines Day handsome>

        Sent: 14/02/2029 8:03 a.m.

He breathes out a chuckle.

Ah fuck, he goes to his contacts, hitting call.  

Something he forgot about too.

Frederik Vesti is literally vibrating beside him as the cameras start to roll.

Logan forces a grin, though tension tightens his chest - he has to fake it for the media, everyone knows that. 

Texas - it’s cold here - still Winter. Objectively it’s an idiotic circuit to have the Mercedes-Willaims launch at - neither teams having a historical connection to this place, on top of the fact it’s fucking freezing and the poor workers have been scraping ice off the track all morning. 

Even though it’s not his problem, he had no say after all, it still kinda is. Because this is where the crash happened - with Kimi. Frederik seemingly has no remorse or negative associations regarding it - happily yapping away to his engineers about how excited he is for the upcoming season. Well, perhaps the Dane views the accident in the same way as Oscar does - all just a game, a competitor’s loss merely an opportunity. 

Still, Logan thinks it’s pretty screwed up they flew all the way to here for their joint launch. Milking the tragedy of the accident - he recalls watching it from the grandstands that day, heart plummeting as the red flag fell and the race never resumed. A small part of him thanked the Gods above that it wasn’t Oscar that day. He still feels guilty about that thought, with Kimi’s career cut so short, cameras snapping away for the most gruesome pictures, vying drivers for the most secret details.

It’s all fucked. And the fact that he, still as America’s first and only Formula One driver, somehow links back into all of this as a reason for both launches to take place here makes his stomach twist.  Wrapped in patriotism and tragedy, it’s the perfect storm for the media, the money-maker of it all.

They have twenty minutes until the cars are revealed - Will Buxton looks rather silly in a comically-oversized cowboy hat as he introduces the event in words Logan can’t quite hear. His ears, in fact, are more muddled by Vesti, who is currently babbling about how unreal it feels to be here in Mercedes gear - ‘a dream come true.’ Logan catches bits of it, smiling and nodding, but his mind is obviously elsewhere. 

He blames his inattention on his fatigue - not something great to start out his year with. But undoubtedly, he can’t even convince himself that he slept well. In fact, all his dreams were fucking filled with a green teddy bear. The image is so vivid, it’s stuck with him even now; unlike his usual dreams he forgets a mere twenty minutes after he awakes from slumber.

It’s odd. It’s vivid. It somehow feels important.

But he really can’t be considering stuffed animal toys right now; he’s about to do his first ever drive in the Williams.

“Big day, huh?” Frederik’s voice cuts through his thoughts, his grin wide.

Logan chuckles weakly. “Yeah, totally.”

George Russell shushes them with a glare. “Focus guys, this is important.”

Logan fights the urge to roll his eyes; yeah, because Will-fuckass-Buxton trying to crack jokes about America is so hilarious. He eyes Powell beside him, but the younger has no discernable expression on his features. 

Maybe Pedro was right. After three minutes of research Logan finally figured out what he wanted to say that their language barrier blocked - Alex Towel, as in the British slang of ‘wet towel.’ Meaning uncharismatic and uninspiring, Perhaps it’s harsh, but he wouldn’t know - the Jamaican-representing driver was not someone he grew up racing beside - they were in entirely different age brackets.

The thick, familiar accent of no one other than Toto Wolff fills the track. He holds so much more presence, more power than Buxton - it’s incredible really - even though the volume is the exact same, Logan hears much more of the Austrian man’s speech than those previous. 

It’s three minutes before he’s scheduled to start preparing for his test-drive when something catches his eye. Green - opposite to the barren desert Texas holds proud and true - something… soft?

Taking a second, he walks down the hall to investigate and when he recognises it, he freezes. 

The green bear. From his dream.

…What the fuck?

If he were in his good mind, he’d just leave it. There is literally zero sane explanation for this fucking bear to be here, in Texas, in person, and more than a figment of his subconscious imagination that interrupted his oh so dear REM sleep.

But… it’s here. He isn’t blind. He can see it.

And something strange inside him compels him to pick it up and take it to his driver’s room - which its beady black eyes watch as he pulls himself together and pulls himself into his fireproofs.

He should leave it here. In this privacy. He’s about to go on track for fuck’s sake he doesn’t have time for distractions.

In the cockpit, it’s an odd mixture of hot and cold. 

He tries to keep his mind only on mental visualisations of each turn to stop his jerves from biting him in the butt. He can’t fuck this up. Not like he used to. Indycar, though it was objectively a step-down from Formula One, gave him the patience and time he had struggled for in his first stint with Williams.

He’s better than before. A better man, a better driver.

He can do this.

And then, the car doesn’t start.

“Good to go,” his race engineer says for the second time.

His heart sinks as he tries again, foot careful on the throttle, frustration bubbling up and to no avail. Nothing.

“Great,” Logan mutters under his breath, making sure his thumb doesn’t come anywhere near the radio button, and slumps into the cockpit. How could one person be so unlucky? Logan is stuck, watching everyone else go by, feeling like a spectator in his own sport.

After several more tries, the car is retired before it even goes out on track. 

He exits, utterly hopeless; wondering if Oscar is staying up late to see his imminent failures or if the younger is busy with his own team back in England.

He stares into the green teddy-bear’s eyes. He sees nothing more than his reflection.

Twenty minutes into the depressing one-hour session, there is a knock at his door.

“Yep?” he asks. He doesn’t really want to face anyone, perhaps the failure of his number ‘2’ car is a bad omen.

“We need you in front of cameras, Logan.”

Ah, right. The whole American driver, American pride thing.

“Okay,” he agrees although he can think of nothing worse thanc showing face. He is supposed to be saving face - and yet, still in his Williams team kit, he exits the comfort of his driver’s room and exposes himself to the wide, wide world. 

He brings the bear with him.

Toto has a permanent frown on his face. He doesn’t know why he was ushered to the Mercedes garage, but he stands awkwardly, out of place in his white fireproofs amongst a sea of black and cyan.

Surprisingly, the bossman spares him a glance.

…And then another.

Logan takes a second to look down at the teddy bear in his arms.

“I found this,” he extends it to the elder man - not knowing why, but it feels right.

The Austrian-born just takes it with a nod, leaving Logan clueless and short for words. Instead of pressing the matter further, he crosses his arms and watches the remaining three cars circle around the track.

After another twenty, the media team let him go.

It’s when he’s back in his driver’s room, fully alone this time, that he gets another knock on the door.

“Yes?” he tries to keep the mild irritation out of his tone - no one deserves that, even if he is bathing in self pity.

“Logan?”

He drags himself off the tiny armchair to open the door, biting down his temper. “What’s up?”

He’s surprised to see a Mercedes uniform at the door and not the white of Williams.

The man clears his throat. 

“Toto wants to see you,” the engineer says. “He’s offering you a lap in the Mercedes.”

Logan blinks, not quite believing what he’s just heard. “Wait—what?”

“Quickly,” the man refuses to elaborate. “The broadcast will end soon - we need to show the Americans.”

That we care, goes unsaid. Yet he can’t deny this righteous opportunity - he’d be a fool not to follow. A lap, in a championship-contender car - so far removed from his own Williams that couldn’t even leave the garage - of course he says yes.

In the garage of black swans he stands out. 

He sits in the cockpit, the number ‘63’ dotting the livery. George Russell stands off to the side, clear pompous dismay on his angular features. 

He puts down his visor and shakes his head to clear the image from his mind. The pressure is enormous. This is a machine that can win championships, and one wrong move could destroy his career, again. The memory of being fired mid-season in 2024 hangs over him like a cloud, but he is better now. 

He can’t let this slip through his fingers - not like before.

So strikingly contrasting not forty-five minutes ago, the car roars to life beneath him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Logan feels… alive. 

He pulls out of the pitlane carefully, sucking in a deep breath of oxygen. Toto has entrusted his with his first-driver’s car. 

He really can’t afford to fuck this up.

As he accelerates down the straight, the Mercedes responds to his every command, smooth and precise. The nerves begin to fade, replaced by a growing sense of control.

Halfway through the lap, he isn’t thinking anymore—just driving. Every corner flows, every movement feels right. The Mercedes is an extension of him, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like he belongs here.

When he crosses the finish line, the adrenaline surges. He doesn’t care about the cameras or the crowd or even the time. But then back in the garage, after his one and only flying lap, his timescreen data appears on the screen and Logan stares in disbelief.

He’s matched George’s time.

He’s matched George’s best time.

Exactly - not one-thousandth of a second in between.

“You wouldn’t believe it, baby,” he paces around the hotel room, pressing his phone impossibly closer to his ear. “It was insane.”

“Wait,” there’s rustling on the other side of the phone. “You matched Russell’s time?”

“Yeah,” Logan can’t prevent the giddiness in his voice. “Toto let me have a go in the Merc and I - I mean - I nailed it!”

“Like-” Oscar reaffirms. “Nailed it, nailed it? You really matched his time? A zero-zero?”

“Ye-” Logan starts but the excitement dies in his throat. Does Oscar… not believe him? Is it really that difficult to believe he finally did well for once? “Yeah.”

But the next words he hears are full of warmth, pride, and sweetness.   “Well done, Lo, you’re incredible.”

Logan bites his lip to hide the smile his lover can’t even see. 

“How’s McLaren going?” 

The papaya team is doing its pre-season testing and car reveal at the same time as Williams and Mercedes.

“I’ll tell you when you get home.”

Oh. So not well, then.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he hums, wracking his brain for something that will alleviate Oscar’s stress. “...Sending virtual kisses.”

That draws a laugh out of the other; they’ve always hated that expression. 

“Okay, Loges, fly safe.”

“I will, baby.”

And the call ends.

As soon as Logan opens up the door, he barely has time to process the sudden force as his body is lifted clear off the ground. 

Strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him in with a strength that always surprises him, no matter how many times it happens. His laugh bursts out, light and easy, as he wriggles half-heartedly, knowing there’s no escape. Oscar’s always been stronger than him. When his feet finally touch the floor again, Logan takes a breath, his heart still racing from the unexpected affection.

They settle onto the couch, the air between them warm and familiar despite the time away. 

Logan glances at his boyfriend, remembering the telephone call they had last night, reaching for some normalcy. “Okay, so you already know about how my pre-season launch event was, so how were things with  McLaren?”

Oscar scratches the back of his head, his expression shifting slightly. 

“Ah, not the greatest,” his voice is casual, but there’s something underneath it. “They’re really pitting me and Lando against each other. The marketing is crazy. And they keep asking if I think I’ll win another championship.”

Logan watches him, the way his shoulders relax a little when he talks. The pressure must still weigh on him, even now. But Oscar doesn’t show it much, not anymore.

Grinning, Logan tugs a tiny and stolen hotel shampoo bottle from the side table and points it toward Oscar like a microphone. “Well, do you, Mr. Piastri?”

Oscar smirks, swatting the bottle away easily, and before Logan can say anything else, he’s pulled into a slow, lazy kiss. There’s no rush, just the softness of Oscar’s lips and the heat that always makes Logan’s stomach twist with need. 

“Of course I do,” Oscar murmurs against his mouth, the confidence clear in his voice. He always knows. He’s always been sure of everything, even now, as he’s learned to express it with age, instead of holding it all in.

They linger there for a second longer, lips still brushing as the kiss fades into something more comfortable. It feels like home. 

“Twelve days until the season starts,” Oscar says quietly, his forehead resting against Logan’s.

Twelve days until everything changes again. But for now, there’s only them.

TESTING

BAHRAIN

From his cockpit, Logan squints at the bright Bahraini sun spreading in from outside the air-conditioned comfort of his garage. He can see the shimmer of heat rising off the track; hear the engines on cars already making their beginning rounds roar past. 

Even though there are literally zero cameras on him, the Williams garage feels smaller than usual, the weight of everyone’s eyes on him heavy, even if most of it is just his own mind playing tricks. 

Still, he knows why they’re watching him. 

He matched George’s pace in Texas.

But now? Well, the obvious difference is that George is currently going around track in a Mercedes and Logan is about to do the same thing but in a Williams. 

There’s no battle there. 

His fight lies with Haas, Alpine and Aston Martin after their fall from grace after Fernando unexpectedly quit his contract - only outlasting Lewis by three months. Now, it’s pre-season testing, and the real pecking order starts to emerge.

He tugs his gloves tighter, trying to push down the gnawing sense of pressure that’s creeping up his neck. Testing doesn’t mean anything, right? It’s not the season—no points on the board, no trophies in sight. Except, it kind of does. Teams get their first real glimpse of what’s coming, and Logan knows that too well.

“Ready to go?” comes a crackling voice through his earpiece.

He hits the radio button with a nervous thumb. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And with that his tyre-warmers come off, his pit crew wave him out, and down the pitlane, he goes.

His Williams, third slowest on the grid in last year’s rankings, rumbles below him. The understeer is still there, biting at him in every corner, the brakes slow to respond like they’re two seconds behind his every thought. He doesn’t even want to think about what this means if this is how his year starts, still he fights until the chequered flag for Day One falls.

He breathes out when it’s over, watching the screen as the final times roll in. P11 not bad, not great. Better than Powell’s P18, that’s for sure. He monitors his data for a minute or so, seeing what turns he needs improvement on, before the heat in the cockpit, in his fireproofs becomes unbearable. He undoes his belt and tugs himself out of his seat with a huff.

Someone claps him on the back for his efforts. They’re probably just glad he didn’t bin it into the barriers like the last time he drove for this team.

Once changed, an excessive amount of deodorant spray on, and face freshened up with cold water and some anti-redness serum, he steps out of his driver’s room and back into the paddock. He took a bit longer than he was supposed to: most driver’s are out talking to the media now.

Oops. 

“Let’s go,” his newly appointed PR manager, Sarah, ushers him to the portable gazebos that offer shade and he does his first interview with the cameras - trying not to look or sound like an idiot.

Pedro hugs him aggressively when they find each other. Logan lets out a genuine laugh at the other’s eagerness. 

“Chloe is terrifying,” his Brazilian accent is thick in his half-whisper, half-shout. “I am not good at talking to women.”

He laughs so loud that Carlos Sainz whips around to glare at him from where he is doing an interview. Covering his hand over his mouth he tries to regain composure.

“You literally have a girlfriend,” he points out and Pedro rolls his eyes; dramatic as usual.

“Yes, but she was a miracle! I am not good with anyone but her.”

Logan snorts. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t be an idiot.”

“I am not-!” Pedro begins to refute but Logan is already making his way towards the next set of cameras.

When he’s asked about the standings so far, he flails around like the very thing he told his friend not to be, before excusing himself as quickly as possible and asking Sarah for the scores and times so far.

Ferrari, surprisingly, has actual pace. Mercedes—well, George does—he’s hitting laps that put him at the top. 

Vesti’s absence from the Mercedes camp is barely mentioned, some sort of appendicitis it seems. It’s been hush-hush, media probably paid off, but all eyes are on George. 

As for McLaren... Logan’s stomach twists.

Looking away from the tablet he tunnel-visions until he sees orange.

Oscar got P8. Lando two places ahead. 

The results don’t make a lot of sense. McLaren has had a championship-winning car for three years now, and the past two they have put that dream into reality thanks to Oscar. 

But… this year they’re not at the top of the times; not even close. He lets out a slow breath, trying to convince himself. They’re just holding back. The whole "keep it cool for testing" thing, right? It has to be that.

After another interview, he strategically places himself in hos boyfriend’s line of vision. It seems like forever until Oscar’s glance catches his, but when it does Logan raises an eyebrow, mouthing silently, “Sandbagging, right?”

Oscar’s expression doesn’t change. No reassuring smirk, no playful wink. Just a look. Logan’s pulse jumps. His mouth goes dry.

“Right?” His lips form the word again, silently, but his stomach twists tighter when Oscar just shrugs, offering nothing.

Fuck.

It’s not sandbagged. 

His boyfriend's silent confirmation lands like a weight in his chest, and Logan swears softly to himself. McLaren’s struggling, and Ferrari’s on a tear. And Mercedes—well, goddamn George—keeps putting in laps that look like the Silver Arrows are back in the game.

 Liam’s RedBull is only seconds off the pace, closely followed by Max Verstappen’s replacement, some kid he doesn’t know, taking time to find the balance of the car. In fairness, based of the times they have put in today, it is clear that the RedBull’s pace has receded - much similar to that of 2024. Logan supposes the retirement of their star driver, then the firing of their star Team Principal has put them on the back foot.

He turns his attention back to his own car, his own results

The Williams isn’t great. Not that he expected it to be. But he’d hoped, somewhere deep down, for the car of his literal dreams. For something to click. Something to make this year different from all the others. But no. Understeer on every exit. Brakes that feel like they’re playing catch-up.

Session one of testing, and he’s already feeling the creeping disappointment. He tries to shove it down, telling himself it’s just testing. It’s only the beginning. But he knows better. In this sport, the beginning can be the end if the technology and upgrades don’t catch up fast enough.

And right now, catching up feels like a long shot.

He can only hope that Oscar isn’t feeling the same.

The shrill ringing jolts both of them awake at the same time. Logan groans, half-blinded by sleep, and fumbles for the bedside alarm clock. But that is not where the sound is coming from. It mockingly flickers back at him, reading; 2:11a.m.

Oscar lets out a frustrated noise beside him, slapping at Logan’s arm, the sting of pain forcing the neurons in his brain to start connecting together. 

“It’s yours,” he mutters, burying his face in the pillow.

Mine?

Oh right, his phone.

Logan squints at the screen, the harsh light burning into his tired eyes. He blinks, seeing an unknown number and, with a frown, hits accept .

Hoping he doesn’t sound too groggy and thick from sleep, has settles for a bleary; “Hello?”

“Logan.”

That voice. His heart skips a beat. Logan suddenly sits up in bed, spine ramrod - now wide awake.

It’s Toto Wolff.

“Hi! Uh, h-hi!”

Beside him, Oscar pulls the blankets over his head, seemingly unaware of the importance of this moment. Logan tries not to freak out, but his mind is racing and he self-consciously runs a hand through his wild bed-hair, like the team principal can see him - smoothing the twisted locks down, self-soothing his brittle heart.

“Sorry to call you so late. Are you alone?” Toto asks, the question sharp and direct.

Logan’s eyes flick over to the lump of blankets that is Oscar, still buried deep in sleep.

“Uh—yes,” Logan lies, hoping Toto doesn’t hear the uncertainty in his voice.

A beat of silence passes before Toto continues, his voice calm but commanding. “Would you be interested to drive the car tomorrow? The Mercedes.”

Logan’s breath catches. Drive the car? Tomorrow? The Mercedes? 

His pulse races, the shock and disbelief hitting him all at once. He swallows hard, adrenaline surging through his veins.

“Yes,” he stammers. “Yes, of course!”

Fuck, that sounds way too eager; desperate. 

There’s a short pause on the other end, followed by the hint of a chuckle. “Good. I’ll see you at the track.”

He can barely get out a ‘thank you’ before the line goes dead.

Logan stares at the phone for a moment, unable to process what just happened. He’s going to drive in a Mercedes tomorrow. The rush of it all hits him at once, his chest tight with excitement.

Oscar stirs beside him, lifting his head slightly from beneath the covers, looking awfully cuddly and way too cute for such a late hour. 

“What was that about?” he mumbles, still half-asleep.

Logan grins, the adrenaline making it impossible to hide. He leans over and plants a soft kiss on Oscar’s temple.

“I’m driving the Mercedes tomorrow,” he whispers, trying to keep the giddiness out of his voice. “Toto just called.”

Oscar mumbles something incoherent and rolls over, too tired to register the news fully. Logan, though, can’t stop smiling.

He lies back down, his heart still racing. And despite the whirlwind in his mind, sleep comes surprisingly easy.

There’s a tap to his shoulder. “Logan?”

He turns, meeting the eyes of a Mercedes engineer - clad in black. Everyone is different, unfamiliar here - and that’s enough to make him uneasy. Alex Albon isn’t here to hold his hand this time. Today, Logan has to handle it on his own. No comfort, no familiar faces. 

Still, in some ways the shiny novelty of it all is nice. No history, no baggage. The pitcrew that prepare his car, weren’t the ones who had to patch together his broken Williams after one of his many crashes last year - didn’t have to stay awake thirty-six hours to fix the floor, or the chassis before race day. They didn’t hold his failed seasons over his head, didn’t look at him with that mix of sympathy and disappointment and irritation he’d gotten so used to. Today, they were just here to do a job. And so was he.

“Hey,” Logan says, trying to sound casual. "You my guy for today?"

“Yep, Jakob” the engineer replies, a calm professionalism in his tone. “I’ll be your voice in the car. First time driving the Merc, right?”

Logan nods. “For - uh - this exact one, yeah. But I took George’s for a lap in COTA.”

Jakob gives him a small smile. "Cars are equal, so don’t stress about any differences - we’ll adjust the brake biases to your comfort. ‘Car’s smooth, responds well. Just give it a few laps and you’ll feel at home.”

Logan nods, taking a deep breath. The calm reassurance helps settle the anxious storm raging inside him. This isn’t Williams anymore. He’s not scrambling to make up for past mistakes. This is a new team, a new car, a new opportunity.

“Alright,” Max says, stepping aside. “Let’s get you strapped in.”

The rumble of the Mercedes engine hums through Logan’s entire body, vibrating up from the soles of his feet and settling in his chest. 

It’s a far cry from the rickety, stubborn Williams he’s used to—there’s no fight with the machine today, no tug-of-war over control. Where yesterday’s car was a stubborn mule that fought him at every turn, the Mercedes is a predator, sleek and smooth, gliding through corners with a finesse that makes his pulse race for all the right reasons. Every movement, every reaction—it’s like the car is an extension of him. The Mercedes feels like it was made for him - every twitch of his fingers, every shift of his foot, it reacts instantly - no , not react - it rather feels like it’s like the car is an extension of him.

The more laps he puts in, the more he begins to relax. The hypervigilance that had gripped him at the start of the session begins to fade. He’s not afraid of crashing anymore—not in this car. It feels too good, too natural. He’s not fighting a battle here; instead, they’re in perfect sync, he and the car on the same team, fighting the same war. Every lap, every corner, every straight—it’s like he belongs here.

He belongs in this car.

“Amazing drive, Logan,” Jakob makes him jump as the chequered flag falls, and the car responds with a slight wobble.

“You scared me,” he laughs, nervous, getting his heart rate back under control, and the car too. The latter is somehow easier than the former.

“Sorry, mate, but you should know-”

Logan braces himself for the news, thumb clear off the radio button, preparing for mundane disappointment.

“-You got P2.”

Wait…

“Sorry?” 

“P2, Charles got the fastest time, then you, Russell, Lawson, Sainz, Piastri…”

He zones out the rest. He got… P2? In a car he’s never driven before? With barely ten hours of notice? Oscar will be kicking himself - not only down the order but also behind Carlos, but in honesty he can barely think about his boyfriend right now because-

He got P2.

An emotion swirls in his chest and it takes him a few seconds to recognise it - unfamiliar to his body, his soul. It’s pride.

As he pulls into the pit box sweat cooling sticky under his fireproofs, his skin, he just barely stops in time before he breaks the front jack-man’s toes. Because up above, on the garage entry reads Vesti’s name, Vesti’s number. 

He’s in Vesti’s car.

This isn’t his own.

For a moment, guilt tugs at him, but he shoves it down. Frederik will get better soon - today was just a blip, a lucky chance. Tomorrow he will have to go back to Williams, to his pit crew that dislikes him, to the car he has to fight.

Shaking his head clear, he pushes himself out of the cockpit and takes off his helmet, letting the mechanics start their work on cooling the engine. 

Cameras are following him. But one particular gaze makes him pause.

Toto. Those piercing eyes, always measuring, always calculating are looking dead at him, like seeing his soul. Logan swallows, keeping to his side of the garage, out of the way. He’s just their stand-in - a little ‘give the Williams loser a chance it could be funny’ - Frederik will rightfully be back in this car for tomorrow.

But then, the taller gives him a small nod, an unspoken approval. Logan exhales slowly, the weight lifting from his shoulders.

But then, just to Toto’s left, something catches Logan’s eye. Toto’s son, Jack Wolff - eleven or something now, stands quietly beside him, cradling a familiar green teddy bear.

POST TESTING

ENGLAND, LONDON

Vesti's not getting better.

Well, not fast enough for Mecedes' standards and it's all a blur. A phone call, Vesti's out, he's in, a contract, another announcement from the Official 'F1' account and suddenly he's Mercedes' newest driver.

Mercedes is an entirely different beast. Logan knows that from the moment he steps through the doors. The longer drive to their HQ, winding through the countryside, gives him too much time to think—time to let the nervous anticipation settle deep into his bones. Each time he pulls into the gates, his stomach twists, reminding him how far he’s come and how much further there is to go.

It’s strange, arriving here without Alex. There’s no one to hold his hand, no one to crack a joke or help ease the tension like Alex always did at Williams. The closest thing he has to a familiar face here is George, but even then, George looks at him like he just stepped in a pile of dogshit and then murdered his family.

So… not much going on there really.

The team sits him down to talk about his role, and they don’t mince words. He’s the second driver. He nods, accepting it—hell, he’ll take anything at this point. He’s not in a position to argue. The pay is better than Williams, but only marginally. He knows this type of contract well. It’s the kind handed to rookies—loaded with bonuses that sound impressive on paper but that no one expects him to actually hit. It’s more of a carrot to keep him pushing hard, something to appease HR and keep the lawyers off their backs. Logan doesn’t mind. He’s taking the opportunity for what it is—a shot to prove himself.

He remembers his boyfriend had a similar contract when they both started in Formula One together. Except Oscar won. Oscar hit the podiums, and those bonuses that seemed out of reach were suddenly being discussed in contract renegotiations. They had to lower them after Oscar’s unexpected success, too much for the team’s liking. 

Logan’s heart swells with a mix of pride and envy remembering it, how happy Oscar had been for him when this Mercedes deal came through. His lover's support never wavered, and yet here Logan is, still chasing the dream while Oscar’s living it.

And now it’s his turn. He looks around the Mercedes garage, takes in the pristine machinery, the engineers moving like clockwork, the quiet hum of expectation. It all feels surreal, like a dream he can’t quite believe is happening. For once, he’s not clawing at scraps—he’s at the heart of it, the chance to prove he deserves to be here.

It all feels like a dream slowly coming true.

SAUDI ARABIA

JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT

It’d be a lie to say his first race with Mercedes went well. 

Logan grits his teeth as he coasts back into the pit lane, the engine purring softly in cooldown mode. He’s just finished P10. Points, technically. But not enough. Not for Mercedes. Certainly not enough for Toto. 

The whole race was a mess from the start. The tumble of cars heading down to Turn One was chaos. He felt the impact immediately, a shudder through the chassis as someone clipped his rear tire. He recovered—barely—but the pack swallowed him whole, and just like that, his golden opportunity was slipping away. 

Then came the penalty. Five fucking seconds for not going around the bollard correctly. The only reason why he went around it incorrectly was because Mick-fucking-Shumacher fucked him in the arse in the first place. 

At least the German-born got the karma when he went into the pits on Lap Two and retired with irreversible front wing damage and a team that couldn't afford a replacement.

He could still hear Jakob in his ear, voice strained but calm as ever, “Box, box, serve the penalty.”

He slams the steering wheel in frustration. His stomach twists at the memory of the penalty. He didn’t even see it coming, didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but the FIA had other ideas. It set him back, and from there, it was damage control.

As he rolls to a stop in the garage, the pit crew surrounds the car, lifting it up on the jacks, but the usual celebratory buzz is absent. No cheers, no relief—just the low murmur of mechanics and engineers discussing next steps, avoiding eye contact. 

Logan pulls his helmet off, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his face. He catches sight of Toto standing just beyond the pit wall, arms crossed, face set in stone. The frown on his face is unmistakable. Logan doesn’t need to hear a word to know what he’s thinking.

You need to work harder.

It echoes in Logan’s head, unspoken but loud. He meets Toto’s gaze for a second, hoping for some sign that he did okay, that salvaging points in a race this bad was something, at least. But Toto’s face remains impassive, his eyes sharp, evaluating. 

Logan forces himself to stand tall, peeling off his gloves and handing them to the nearest crew member. His body aches, muscles tense from holding onto the car for dear life, every lap a battle to stay in the points. He knows it isn’t enough.

And that’s the worst part—knowing it isn’t enough but also knowing it could’ve been so much worse. He managed to claw his way to P10 despite the chaos, despite the penalty, but still... It feels hollow. It feels like failure.

Jakob’s voice is now in-person - he can see his lips move as he speaks. “Good recovery, Logan. We’ll debrief soon.”

Good recovery. 

Logan clenches his jaw. It doesn’t feel like a recovery at all.

He takes a deep breath and glances back at Toto, whose gaze is now on the screens, already thinking ahead, probably dissecting every corner, every sector where Logan fell short. The pressure weighs on him heavily, the kind that threatens to crush if you let it. But Logan can’t afford to be crushed. Not now.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and forces his legs to move, stepping out of the car and making his way to the engineers for the debrief. He can feel the weight of expectation on his shoulders. He can hear it in the silence of the garage. 

Work harder.

BAHRAIN

THE BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT OF BAKU

It’s only the second race of the year, and Logan's nerves are already beginning to fray. Practice sessions have been frustrating; he keeps tweaking things, trying to find some kind of rhythm that never quite clicks. Every time he thinks he's close, George sets a time that feels unreachable, no matter how much Logan pushes. Seventh in qualifying isn't terrible by any means, but it’s irritating—especially when George lines up third - and he knows he is capable of watching the elder’s time.

In the garage, Logan tries to focus on feedback from the engineers, but his mind keeps drifting back to the same question: What was he doing wrong? With everything - his racing line, his tyre management, his professionalism, his personality. 

Vesti’s absence doesn’t help matters either. 

A pit-team that had spent years knowing Frederik as the reserve driver then to suddenly be replaced without someone like him… Overall, he can admit that he’s a bit awkward. He never really knows what quite what to say, how to increase morale, how to convince them he is good enough for Mercedes and the calibre of this championship-winning team. 

Vesti is still in hospital - now transferred to Denmark to be with his family. That sours a lot of things; the knowledge a close friend was ill. Logan almost wishes he could live in oblivion - that would be easier under the stares of reproachful engineers; even if they didn’t necessarily have any ill-will towards himself as a human being. 

He glances over at George a few garages down. They’re not friends—Logan’s not sure why George has been so distant since he joined the team, but it gnaws at him. He’s not great at making friends, not like Oscar, who wins people over effortlessly. Last year, Logan really only had Pedro and his boyfriend in his corner. He didn’t manage to make meaningful connections in his first few seasons in Formula One nor could he in IndyCar. Back in America he spent a lot of time with his family, with Dalton, with Dalton’s friends. 

He’s not sure where the extraverted side of himself went. He is someone who gains energy through connection - not like Oscar who requires his alone time. Yet how can he pale in comparison to his lover in the social department?

Logan shakes his head, trying to refocus. He needs to concentrate on this race, but George’s coldness hangs over him like a storm cloud. He knows he can’t rely on that relationship, but part of him still hopes to fix it. They’re teammates, after all, and Logan isn’t the type to thrive in isolation. He needs allies.

Post qualifying, he takes a walk through the paddock, past the Williams garage and waves at Powell and his new teammate - some Formula Three guy who only got in because of the money.

“Hey, Logan!” Alex Albon jeers clapping him on the shoulder. “How’s it going?”

Logan sighs, relieved by the small moment of friendship, and allows his true feelings to show. “Seventh.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “Seventh isn’t too bad. You’ve got this.”

Logan forces a tight smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

Alex picks up on the tension in his voice but doesn’t push. He’s not just an ex-teammate; Alex has always been more than that. A genuine friend, even if their time racing together was short-lived. A good boss too - even if for the approximately thirty days Logan properly worked under him.

“Well, it’s a long race tomorrow. Seventh can turn into something better pretty quickly,” Alex adds.

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, dude.” Logan appreciates the encouragement, even if part of him still feels like seventh is a personal failure.

Since Jeddah he has been doing more hours on the sim, more hours in the factory, more hours in the gym. He needs to work harder. He can’t disappoint Toto or himself.

And he doesn’t. Well, not really.

While waiting for the five red lights he sees it. 

A safety car - not behind but far in front of him - leading a river of cars around the track until debris he spots of the side of the road - an Aston Martin is cleared. He gets a poor start - too distracted by the overwhelming realness of the… memory? and Liam Lawson’s RedBull squeezes down the inside of Turn One. 

Fuck. He’s fucking this. He doesn’t have time for anything else but the race. 

But then a few laps later Jessica crashes out - sand granules on the track making it difficult for all drivers and Logan spams his radio button. 

“I’m pitting,” as he veers away from the underside of Lawson and into the clear air. He only has to sit in the pit box for a millisecond until his softs go off and new hard tyres replace it.

“I can do a one-stop,” he says as he comes out in P15, not necessarily a truth but an optimistic lie instead. 

“Okay, Plan C,” Jakob responds, and Logan inhales a deep breath.

This is going to be a long race.

He finishes P5. It was a lucky gamble to pit under the safety car then go in for the rest of the race, but ultimately it succeeded. 

He cheers for George who beat Liam to the line in P2 for appearances. He cheers for Oscar, who dominated this race from beginning to finish for, and from, his heart. 

“Good start to the season,” he hums and traces over the soft flesh of his lover’s pectoral muscle: Oscar is first in the championship already - also having gotten the fastest lap placing him one point above Charles.

“You too, baby,” Oscar presses a kiss to his forehead and Logan positively melts underneath it. “P5 is brilliant.”

It is, but also it isn’t. He finished behind George. He hasn’t worked hard enough.

At breakfast they both indulge in the hotel’s buffet. While Oscar eats like a king, Logan eats like a prince - his meal plan still drifting in the back of his consciousness.

However, he shouldn’t think nor speak of calories when Oscar is like this. So unrestrained, so free. 

Logan piles some more melon and another piece of bacon onto his plate.

“I’m proud of you, honey,” he says when they both finish their meals.

Oscar gives him a smile. They both know the true depth of that statement.

“Thank you,” the Australian responds in a whisper.

And with that, their second race of the season comes to a close. 

AUSTRALIA

ALBERT PARK GRAND PRIX CIRCUIT

As the chequered flag falls, Logan just knows Oscar will be disappointed. 

He prioritises himself to get through media as quickly as possible, a boring P12 from him (but George did worse), debrief also goes rather quickly and he gets out of the Mercedes garage as soon as possible. 

The sun sets as he drives the twenty-three minutes to the place he knows Oscar will have fled to, audio clips of Oscar’s post-race interview, then Lando’s victorious one as he drives down the scenic coast. 

Oscar’s never won his home race. 

In fact, in all the years, he’s only podiumed once.

Logan knows it grates at Oscar’s heart, at Oscar’s pride. He often blames himself even if the result wasn’t his fault but it’s all out of his incessant dedication to succeed - win in front of his mother, his sisters, how childhood friends - everyone that has ever supported him from a child until now - the age of twenty-seven.

When he parks, he walks up to the Piastri household door and hesitates. Even with his own home in Florida he always knocks. But Nicole has told him many a time that he can let himself in - with the key she gave him three years ago.

They know; Oscar’s parents do. They also support them.

Nicole calls him her ‘beautiful son-in-law’ despite the lack of a golden band on his finger. 

Taking in a deep breath, he puts key to keyhole and twists the knob open - creeping through the hallway and into the kitchen.

Shit - he should have gotten flowers or something, Nicole is surely here. 

But even without them she opens her arms and Logan falls into her warm embrace.

“Hello, darling,” she is shorter but still whenever he is around her he feels so small - in the best of ways. Something of a child again.

“Hey,” he squeezes her forearm gently. “How is he?”

Nicole gives him a small, sad smile. 

“In his bedroom,” she explains. “He’ll want to see you.”

Logan looks towards the creaky oak stairs. “M’ not sure, you know how he can be sometimes.”

She laughs then, the sound almost violent as it cuts through the air. “Trust me, I know.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, slightly awkward as he dips his head. Of course she knows - you’re talking to the woman that raised him, for God’s sake.

“He’s his own harshest critic,” she continues, sagging on the marble countertop Oscar had gifted to them last Christmas - a renovation for the kitchen, new countertops, new splashbacks, new appliances, new everything. Somehow it doesn’t seem too jarring for their old, albeit large, house. Logan remembers the original plan - buying them all a mansion by the seaside a few blocks away. 

In the end, Logan thinks everyone is glad he didn’t, Oscar included even if he refuses to admit it. There is just something so comforting about a childhood home - Logan wouldn’t know what it feels like truly, but this is close enough. He spent many summers here, as a child, then as a teenager.

His home away from Florida.

Nicole meets his gaze, staring him dead in the eye. “You are too, Logan.”

He snorts; he has a love-hate relationship with her perceptiveness. But she knows, unlike Oscar, that her words don’t necessarily relate to racing.

“I know,” he confesses with a smile.

“Go see him,” Nicole nods at the staircase. “He needs you.”

I need him too, goes unsaid.

As he paces up the stairs he can’t help the self-doubt rush into his mind with a cruel comment - I need him more than he needs me.

And this is what ‘Mama Piastri’ was talking about.

They know.

He’ll get to fixing it one day, but for now, he needs to put himself second.

Oscar comes first. Even if not in today’s race.

He knocks only once before he opens the door.

His beloved is laying on the bed, on his side, curtains drawn shut and ceiling glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars being the only light source. 

Words aren’t required. Oscar doesn’t need that.

So instead, Logan just curls up beside him, holds him close and inhales the musky, Oscar scent of the nape of his neck  before he presses his lips to the freckles and thin hairs that live there.

“I love you, Osc,” he hums; knowing the Australian is not sleeping despite his silence. “I love you so much, my love.”

And he stays there until short staccato inhales turn into stifled sobs then finally into long, regulated breaths of slumber.

It’s only then, can Logan let his mind and body drift off into sleep.

SOUTH AFRICA

KYALAMI GRAND PRIX CIRCUIT

South Africa is boiling despite it being in early spring. 

The race goes smooth, simple - no protests, no drama, not even a safety car.

Oscar gets one place ahead of him.

The gap feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller, getting them closer and closer to each other.

Charles leads the championship by fifteen points.

JAPAN 

SUZUKA INTERNATIONAL RACING COURSE

Knowing that this will be the last time he will drive Suzuka is a strange thing. Not because of his one-year contract - even if Mercedes gave him another chance, next season the figure-eight shaped track wouldn’t be on the schedule. 

It’s being retired.

Hence, the media is bountiful and the ceremonies are long. Logan shuffles on his feet as the third of the ‘opening songs’ play in a language he can’t understand and in instruments he can’t identify. 

Sebastian and Lewis are rumoured to arrive in time for the race on Sunday. 

Something about beehives. Something also about Japan legalising same-sex marriage.

The fact that he and Oscar, even if they are ‘in the closet’ to the outside world, will not be the first pair of ‘gay’ Formula One drivers is a comfort. Even if Lewis and Vettel announced their relationship after they announced their retirements, it was and still is obviously a big deal. 

Rumours say they have kids now, both through adoption and their latest one being some new medical resource that adds both father’s DNA without using the females despite obviously requiring an egg or surrogate. 

Logan thinks that’s kinda beautiful.

As the song plays he chances a peek at Oscar’s side profile - the McLaren driver next to Lando a few teams down the line. Well, multiple teams down the line - for these such things they stand in last year's Constructors championship order.

He wonders what the future looks like for them. They haven’t even discussed the possibility of children - both too focussed on their careers, or, perhaps more fittingly, both too focussed on Oscar’s career.

He licks his cracked lips and applauds when he realises the song is over. 

A new person takes the last singer’s place.

The show begins again.

The night before the race he dreams. 

Dreams that he doesn’t forget when on Lap Thirty Nine he goes on the dirty side of the track, an unfamiliar line, placing down grip and rubber he will eventually need to use. Ocon overtakes him, he hears Jakob reaffirm it in his ears. 

“P6, Logan. Don’t lose focus.”

They don’t understand. They don’t know.

He’ll get the place back soon.

On Lap Forty it happens - Bearman locks up, Ocon goes careening off the side to avoid it, taking out Charles as he does so. Logan fights the Mercedes, retracing that path as the rain pours down - wet tyres barely holding on as he watches the Alpine fly off into the barriers taking the scarlet Ferrari with it, watches his dream come to actualisation as he just keeps it on track - overtaking the young Brit who caused this whole mess just before the yellow flag falls.

P3. He’s in fucking P3.

Please, he pushes harder on his in-lap, Bearman behind him on the same strategy.

Please, he begs as they switch to intermediates for his final stint - the green wheels spinning as he exits the box in front of the Sauber.

Please, it’s the last lap and he’s gotta’ be at least twenty seconds of Carlos ahead but that doesn’t matter because all he needs to focus on is defense because the end of this race, the end of Suzuka is just so fucking close and-

A podium.

He scores a fucking podium.

All because of that one odd line he took on Lap Thirty Nine.

As the Australian Anthem plays, Oscar keeps staring down at him - unable to hide his smile. Logan beams up with him, impatient as the orchestra comes to an end.

His second podium. One he earned. One he deserves.

Sure, two cars crashed out, but this was no Zandvoort - fucking six times that resulted in his thrid step placement last year. 

But this, this, he did all by, all through, himself.

Foamy spray hits his face and he chokes on it. 

“Asshole,” he mouths back and Oscar barely has time to turn his back when Logan dumps his entire bottle onto the thick curls of his boyfriend’s head. 

They must look like idiots up there. Gleeful - having a champagne fight together and completely ignoring Carlos at the expense of physically dousing their love and pride onto each other.

Once it’s over, Vettel catches his eye.

Logan gives him a small smile. 

Jenson must have told him.

But, Logan knows his secret, well, his and Oscar’s secret, is safe with both elders. 

To celebrate, they go to a shoddy Japanese bar.

He glances at Oscar, who looks for more confident about this run-down shithole than Logan feels. The smell of old wood and spilled sake lingers in the air, bottles stacked haphazardly on shelves, and he can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his boyfriend.

“Really?” he mouths, following Lewis as they weave through the people. 

“Don’t stress,” Oscar laughs, grabbing onto his hand - something so public and affectionate Logan almost trips over his own two feet. “We’re not even there yet.”

Yet? He wants to ask but then he sees the suited bodyguard who steps aside to a ridiculously large oakwood door.

“Sirs,” he speaks perfect English, in such a deep voice Logan feels shaken by it.

“Welcome, right this way.”

And the door opens to something beautiful.

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as he takes in the sight before him. The ceiling is adorned with cherry blossoms, pink and white petals glowing softly under the light of chandeliers. Tables are set with the finest linens, silverware, and crystal glasses, each surrounded by elegant chairs. The atmosphere feels otherworldly— magical — especially to that of the cramped gay bar it is hidden behind - and the silver name, etched in flowing script on the far wall, seals it:

‘Mon Cherry.’

“Oh shit,” Logan whispers, eyes wide. “Is this...?”

Oscar lets out a small laugh, pulling Logan closer by the waist. “Yeah, it is.”

Yuki Tsunoda’s most exclusive of his many, five-Michelin star global network of restaurants. 

And as they walk to their table, (he’s about to have dinner with Sebastian Vettel and Lewis Hamilton inside of Yuki Tsunoda’s secret myth of a restaurant with the love of his life after getting his first real podium - what the fuck even is his life-? ) when he remembers.

This place isn’t only, or just, a restaurant.

Because looking into the eyes of Pierre Gasly, a beautiful piece of portraiture - the only picture, small and framed, on the wall, he remembers.

This place is also a tribute.

Ushered into his seat, he looks at the delicate silverware, watches as his wine glass gets filled with a pinot gris , a proper , one from France - the bottle reading ‘Rouen,’ Pierre’s hometown.

As the first course arrives, Logan can hardly believe his eyes. The dish is a masterpiece—tiny, intricately arranged morsels of food, each piece a work of art. The scents hit him first—delicate, floral notes mingling with the unmistakable umami of miso and soy. A hint of truffle lingers in the air, mixing with the sharpness of citrus. The presentation is immaculate: sashimi laid over a creamy foie gras mousse, a delicate tempura adorned with edible gold flakes, and a drizzle of miso caramel that glistens like morning dew.

He picks up his chopsticks, carefully lifting a piece of lightly seared wagyu, its fat marbled and perfectly rendered. The meat melts on his tongue, the richness of the beef balanced by a hint of yuzu zest and the faintest crunch of sea salt. Logan closes his eyes, letting the flavours dance across his palate—there’s something so gentle yet bold about the combination, like a perfectly tuned car engine humming beneath him, ready to burst into speed at a moment’s notice.

Each bite surprises him, layers of flavour that shouldn’t work together but do. The sharp tang of pickled ginger cleanses his mouth between bites of buttery uni and creamy mashed potato infused with dashi. The French techniques, the finesse and precision, blend seamlessly with the Japanese ingredients, creating something entirely new and utterly unforgettable.

Another bottle and meal in, Logan enjoys the peaceful harmony of their table, their dinner, until a bright burst of laughter breaks the quiet elegance.

Drawn to it, Logan looks away from the table to the source of the noise and blinks, confused, when he identifies it.

  A kid? Here, in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the world? It’s so conspicuous against these tables, the sakura, the soft violin from the performer on the small circular stage.

And then he sees her—a tall, blonde woman chasing after them in heels that should be impossible to run in. Despite the chaos, she moves with grace, her French accent thick as she apologises profusely to nearby tables.

“Jean-Jaques,” she hisses as the boy whizzes past them in a flash, then stops - like how Charle’s Ferrari had as soon as it hit the wall. 

The child, dark-haired, brown eyes looks up - not at him - but at Lewis. “Okāsan! It’s Lewis Hamilton!”

The woman finally catches up to the child, taking his hand with a soft, motherly smile, albeit the hint of frustration evident in the way her eyebrows twitch.

 “I’m so sorry for the disruption,” she says in perfect English, her cheeks flushed from the chase. “Yuki will be here soon.” 

Suddenly, it clicks.

This is Yuki’s son, Yuki’s wife.

Sure enough, and true to his wife’s promises, the very man himself serves them dessert.

Well, serve would be perhaps and overstatement - instead he flops into a seat with a sigh then immediately perks up to smile at all of them. Logan thinks Yuki is brave - he made an entire worldwide business, completely and entirely separate to his many years of racing in Formula One, and ultimately succeeded more than he ever did in the sport. 

Now, he has millions to his name, a wife, beautiful children (he introduces them to Akemi - an adorable eight-month old and his wife, Elise, coos with their son grasped (tightly) by their side.

“Thank you,” Vettel speaks for them all, patting the napkin against his greying moustache. “This was delightful, Yuki.”

“My pleasure,” the short man hums, passing Akemi to his wife. “This place is for people I love. Of course you were okay to come inside.”

For some reason, Logan likes that the other never fully perfected his English. It’s like a big ‘fuck you’ to colonialsim, even though Japan had been the only Asian country to escape the Western’s overbearing presence. 

Lewis sips his wine; Logan mirrors it, never having developed a strong relation with the Japanese man whilst in the sport and not having sought one afterwards. 

“We appreciate it more than words could express,” the Briton hums and Logan must agree. 

This whole experience has been unforgettable. The food delectable, the service unmatched. 

A vision of a lighthouse flickers through his mind.

He doesn’t know quite what to think of it.

He thanks the man who refuses to accept any payment for their meal.

“I built this with the intention of being a safe space,” Yuki shrugs and Logan doesn’t miss how those brown eyes flicker between himself and Oscar. “It’s on me. Good podium today, the both of you.”

Oscar slides an Australian green bill to their server anyhow - Logan bets eighty-American-dollars would barely cover their entrees.

And they leave; hearts full and stomachs equalising.

I think Logan ruminates, as he lays in bed - Oscar beside him. I think this was the greatest weekend of my entire life.

CHINA 

SHANGHAI INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT

He’s running in fourth by lap thirteen, despite a shitty qualifying yesterday. He survived Turn One; a success when Charles took out Lando and Dorine’s Alpine resulting in a broken barrier and a red flag that took an irritatingly long time to solve.

He can see the rear wing of Oscar’s McLaren flapping in front of him. It’s mocking in a way, and yet the chase invigorates him. 

“Down zero point eight this lap,” Jakob does not comfort him.

Logan grits his teeth. He’s pushing, pushing so hard, and still it feels like he’s barely making a dent. He takes a riskier line into Turn Nine, the rear of the car kicking slightly as his tyre grazes the styrofoam barrier. Too close.

“I’m—I’m pushing as hard as I can.” His voice cracks through the radio.

“Keep fighting,” the words are somewhat supportive. Well, better than what he is used to - ‘retire the car,’ ‘you are losing valuable time’, ‘are you okay?’ 

He doesn't respond. Shanghai is cruel - one lapse of focus could be the difference between ending up in the points or ending up in the wall.

Up ahead, Oscar’s car dances through the corners, smooth and precise. Logan knows him. He knows how Oscar drives—how he never gives an inch; Logan is the one who needs to be careful here.

Why? 

Well firstly, because Oscar’s defending his position; if something goes wrong, Logan knows he’ll be the one rightfully blamed. He’s on the offence; he has everything to lose. 

But more than that—it’s Oscar. He loves him, they love each other, but on track? There are no concessions here, no favours. 

Oscar doesn’t give up a place to anyone, himself included. And sure, Logan expects that his boyfriend won’t pull a Hamilton-on-Verstappen-into-Copse-Corner-China-edition type of move on him because that would just be fucked.  And also he’s pretty sure Oscar would get tried for second degree murder or something, but that’s not something he should be thinking about because it’s tight through the first of the chicane and Oscar isn’t one to back out first.

But, Logan’s hungry. So, so hungry. He wants this—wants it bad. The memory of last week’s podium in Suzuka flashes in his mind, the champagne, the roar of the crowd. It’s addictive, and he craves it carnally.

Neither willing to compromise, engines roaring in a mixture of heat and symphony they approach the second twist, the gap shrinking. He holds his breath, can see the fluorescent yellow of Oscar’s helmet shifting in the cockpit, checking the mirrors again and again. Logan inches closer, his car edging ever nearer as time seems to warp, the decision looming: does he pull back, or does he send it down the inside?

He can see it. He’s so close.

He wants it.

And then it hits him—a flash, vivid and brutal— body lurching forward, bones rattling with the violent crunch of metal on metal, his chest slamming into the harness as Oscar’s car spins out beside him. They’re both spinning, he realises, a sickening, swirl of orange, then sky, blue, orange, then sky, blue, orange, then sky, blue and then black.

His body reacts before his brain can catch up. It feels so real that Logan reacts instinctively, his hands jerking the wheel hard left trying to avoid it, but before he can stop the slide he has put himself in, the tyres let go beneath him; twisted by his erratic spin of his hands. 

Wait, is this real? He saw them crash, but now is he actually crashing?

It certainly fucking feels real - as he holds his breath, every muscle tightening and forcing his hands to let go of the wheel to avoid breakages.

The G-force pulls at his chest, his stomach flipping as the car spins. For a split second, it’s like freefalling.

Then—impact. A jolt shoots through his entire frame as his car slams into the barrier, hard but not catastrophic. He clenches his teeth at the shock, his body pressed upright into the seat. Everything is still. A ringing fills his head, deafening, as he blinks open bleary eyes.

His first conscious thought isn’t about himself—it’s about Oscar.

Oh God.

His heart thunders in his chest as he snaps his head around, searching for any sign of the McLaren. His vision is blurred, his hands shaking, he is the only one in the barriers. No crumpled papaya, no wreckage.

His breath comes in ragged gasps. Relief crashes into him like a wave.

Oscar’s okay, Oscar’s on track, Oscar isn’t trapped in a cockpit of a half-car destroyed by the spin, destroyed by the impact. Oscar is safe.

The radio crackles, Jakob’s voice breaking through, sounding somewhat panicked. “Logan, answer if you can hear me, are you okay?”

Shit - he’s been silent too long. He fumbles for the radio button, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Jakob asks again, more insistent this time.

He presses the button again, frustration mixing with confusion. “Yeah, I’m okay. Did you not hear me before?” 

His voice sounds brash, even to himself, but he’s disoriented, still processing.

“Yes. We heard you.” Jakob’s tone softens, relief evident. “Shut everything down, turn off the car.”

Logan exhales shakily and complies, shutting off the engine and removing the wheel, placing it on the damaged nose cone of his black and cyan livery. The only orange he sees now is a steward, waving hastily for him to get out.

He mumbles something incoherent, sending a thumbs up to signal that he’s fine. This one wasn’t even that bad— not in the grand scheme of his sordid history of race-ending crashes —but the first one of the season always stings more than he’s mentally prepared for.

As he lugs his body through the tiny hole they expect him to squeeze through that lands him completely off the circuit and thus in no immediate danger, he realises that’s there’s been a yellow flag.

The cars file down the corner, bypassing his Mercedes that the stewards are now attaching to the crane so it can be cleared and, and Logan counts them.

Forcing his eyes to focus despite the strain, the ground vibrates as the queue whizzes by.

But there’s only one orange car in the line.

And when he looks up to the big trackside screen he understands why.

His partner’s car is on stilts, being wheeled into the garage - retired.

Logan feels his heart drop. Ah, fuck.

Oscar’s gonna’ be so pissed off.

He’s back-packing on a medical motorbike before he even knows it. He thinks it’s odd, the fact he got into such an accident and now they’re putting him on one of the most unsafe vehicles in history with no protection from the elements.

He supposes, distantly, that if were another driver maybe they would have been bothered to get the actual medical car, even if it extended the yellow flags for another minute or so. But the world has seen him walking out unscathed in far more damaging crashes than that, so he just forces himself to grip onto the driver tighter and obey their instructions as they usher him through the pristine, cold sliding glass doors of medical.

All the tests take less than fifteen minutes. Blood pressure - baseline, heart rate - slightly high but that can be explained by the adrenaline, no broken bones and only few hints of an incoming concussion migraine. 

His ears are still ringing, just a bit, but at this point he can’t even tell if there’s anything actually there or if it’s just the sound of metal crunching replaying on loop.

Logan sits on the edge of the medical bed, his leg bouncing anxiously. He hates being in here - he wants to see Jakob, not liking how perturbed his usually unflappable race engineer sounded. 

There’s a knock to his curtain (well as much as someone can knock on a blue hospital separating curtain) and Logan sucks in a deep, albeit shaky breath, expecting the latter, or worse Toto to appear.

“Hey,” and he could recognise that voice anywhere - Oscar greets him with a soft smile, that familiar calmness in his eyes.

Logan blinks, half-expecting anger, disappointment, anything but the gentle expression on Oscar’s face. He’s a little scared of how this will go. 

“Hey.. I’m—”

“Don’t say it.” Oscar cuts him off gently, walking closer. “I know, and it’s fine. Racing incident—it happens. I should have given you more room—"

“Don’t say that, Oscar,” Logan blurts, the words tumbling out faster than he can stop them. His stomach twists at the thought. "Have you seen the onboards? It was my fault—”

“No, babe,” the pet name, rare and intimate, falls from Oscar’s lips with a softness that catches Logan off guard. Oscar usually sticks to nicknames—rarely something this personal, this close. It makes Logan’s heart melt and ache all at once. Oscar’s showing a vulnerability he doesn’t always share, wearing his heart openly in a way that radiates strength rather than weakness. “Don’t stress, all you need to focus on is getting better.”

Logan laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine.” 

Oscar hasn’t seen it yet—the truth of the accident - the snap left, the random swerve that to anyone else must have looked completely idiotic. They had enough space, enough time. It wasn’t his partner’s fault at all. He just... freaked out. He panicked and binned it, ruining both their races.

But Oscar sounds so unwavering in his tone that it even gives Logan pause. For a moment, he actually considers the possibility that Oscar might be right—that maybe this crash was inevitable. That maybe, somehow, there was nothing he could’ve done to stop it.

Except that’s not true.

He saw it. Milliseconds before it happened, he saw the crash play out in his mind. That’s why he swerved in the first place, why he dragged Oscar as collateral into the wreckage with him. 

If he could just learn to control these strange visions, to stay calm when they hit, maybe… maybe he could’ve changed their fates. 

Maybe this race could’ve ended differently for both of them.

It takes twenty minutes to get back to Oscar’s hotel - not even staying for the end of the race, and hence the traffic is lighter because of it. His boyfriend must have pulled a few strings to allow them both to miss the main bulk of media and then their individual team debriefs. Logan guesses as the reigning World Champion it affords him that kind of blase power.

It’s strange in the taxi. Because it’s not just them in the car - of course Lando had to retire with engine issues a few laps after they did and Logan is sandwiched in the middle of the McLaren boys - Lando hitched a ride without even really asking.

When they’re in places that could get them imprisoned for any expression of homosexuality, they usually try to avoid going back to each other’s rooms. But Oscar had placed the call without a hint of reservation, and honestly, Logan is simultaneously too exhausted and too pent up - jittery -  to put up a fight. 

Besides, Lando couldn’t seem to give less of a fuck. Oscar’s probably hinted at what they are by now - the pair have been teammates for so many years. Still, the eldest just huffs as he scrolls through his phone, completely unbothered, and Logan tenses when to the right of him, a clandestine squeezes the top of his thigh - under the guise of platonic reassurance. 

But Logan knows. 

“You feeling okay?” there’s an underlying sharpness to the younger’s tone as they ride up the elevator to the fifty-third floor. Logan shudders, suddenly all aches from the crash fading - he knows this low, curling timbre.

He glances towards Lando who has been strangely mute essentially this entire time.

“Yeah,” he swallows, trying to remain casual, heart starting to thud - but not out of fear - this time out of anticipation, against his chest. “You?”

And Oscar smiles - previous softness replaced with a wolfish grin as the elevator dings.

“Couldn’t be better.”

As soon as they’re alone, Oscar is on him.

“If you wanted to fuck me you should have done it last weekend,” he teases, but the jokes are over when Oscar runs his hands beneath the fabric of his shirt, raking unclipped nails down his abdomen.

He bites back a whimper - muffling it as he bites down on his lip.

“Lando can hear us,” he warns but it’s useless - he’s already done for.

Oscar teethes at the skin on the underside of his jaw, only pulling way to mutter out, “Fuck him.”

Logan falls flat on the bed, guided by Oscar’s wanting, greedy hands and cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh, so now you want me to go next-door-?”

A weight grips heavy on his wrists, pinning them down to the duvet and Logan can’t bite back the gasp as the sudden jolt of his body.

“No,” Oscar growls and fuck he’s so sexy when he’s all possessive like this - a commanding display so rare for the younger and Logan finds himself seeing stars when a knee presses down on his groin.

“Fuck,” he disjointedly whimpers and tips his head back, baring his neck as quick, merciless pleasure maars the column of his throat.

Oscar continues with his exploration of the terrain of his body, even if they already know each other’s every inch and curve. Logan feels his head begin to go hazy with it, being so close to the edge yet so fat from the destination, only sharp when his visual cortex spots a brief opportunity to make Oscar just as unhinged as he feels; whether that is a grasp at the sensitive flesh above his hipbone or a nip of teeth to the other’’s red-bitten lips.

Power is not a rigid structure for either of them. But today, piliant in Oscar’s grasp; as soon as they entered this hotel room it seemed to have been predetermined for them both.

“What do you want?” both shirts are off now, Logan feels raw already.

“You already know Osc -ah!” there’s a hand wrapped around his cock - not his own - one wrist still pinned behind his head.

The ceiling spins.

He tries to calm his rabbit-pace heart and exhales through his nose as best he can as Oscar latches himself to a nipple - hard and sensitive under his lover’s swirling tongue.

“Shit-” he’s breathless -  bucking up his hips into Oscar’s and his satisfaction grows when the other responds with a low moan - the vibrations going right to his heart.

Then, Oscar looks up at him - unshaved fine chin hairs prickling on his bare chest. Logan chances a look down, meeting the other’s eyes - darkened almost to black with rippling lust. 

“And what do you say to get what you want?”

What does… he say? 

He tenses as he puts the pieces together - why Oscar is so domineering, why he is seeking so much control, and pushing Logan even more to the limits compared to their regular sex. 

The crash. Logan crashed into him. The blatant loss of control as their cars were sent spinning - unable to stop their DNFs. And Oscar… well… he had no choice nor fault in the matter.

It was himself that ruined both their races.

Is this now… some form of punishment?

He must take too long to answer because Oscar’s eyes soften and the clamp on his wrist loosens.

“Sorry,” he blurts out - both a knee-jerk reaction to sullying the moment and also hopefully the correct response to Oscar’s previous question.

But now, his lover frowns and his weight lifts considerably - unboxing Logan from the bed, and the tight, pleasuring pressure from his dick is swiftly removed.

“Wait!” Logan runs his now free hands across the other’s abdomen, attempting to pull it down, pull it closer to him, but when that doesn’t work he scrabbles for purchase in the fabric of Oscar’s waistband.

“Lo-” 

“Please, baby,” he pouts, when he’s sure the other won’t move, he slides his hands around to the curve of Oscar’s lower back and then his clothed ass. 

He flutters his eyelashes for extra effect, the next words drip off his swollen lips - sultry, slow and honest; “I want you, only you, all of you.”

And Oscar bends back down and meets him in a kiss.

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AUTODROME

He cinches fourth in Miami. 

It’s a great result, a marvellous one when compared to every other season he’s raced in Formula One, but in front of his home crowd, his mother, his country he wishes he caught Carlos before the chequered flag.

Oscar stands proud, on the second step on the podium - another trophy for their mantel place, and Logan cheers as loud as he can without drawing attention from cameras.

He deserved first - in fact, he would have gotten it if his left-rear tyre didn’t literally explode halfway into the final lap. The replays highlight the intensity of it - a slow moving car, wounded but still fighting, as the pack hunts the papaya down quicker and quicker to swallow it, destroy it.

In the end first place went to Lando. Seeing as the elder man has made compromises earlier in the season to aid Oscar’s high-scoring positions, Logan supposes no one can really complain. 

Word on the street is that it’s the Brit’s last season anyway. 

May as well throw him the bone of one victory; in the same place where he won his first ever race on top of that.

A circular narrative, Logan thinks it’s sweet really.

Still, Lando isn’t really what is on his mind as he applauds - it’s Oscar who fought his ‘rival’ for second - tense battling and ruthless behaviour from the both - that is where the real fight ended up being.

Some small part of him tries to believe Oscar was purposefully slowing down the Spaniard so Logan, a few seconds behind could catch up, but he knows it’s optimistic thinking.

On the racetrack, they are not lovers. And Oscar would never jeopardise his own race purposefully for anyone or anything,

It’s one of the myriad of reasons Logan loves him.

Their love, their pride, their connection is between them - no one else - something covert from the public but true and tangible when alone. 

He tries to show Oscar just how proud he is of him in the darkness of night, illuminated only by one hotel bedside lamp as he sucks imprints of success into the other's pale skin. 

In fairness, Oscar hides them well the next night at dinner - finding an excuse as to why he’s keeping his jacket on and zipped. Ha - payback for China. 

In front of his own parents they discuss, they joke, they laugh, they ruminate. 

Ruminate about how far they’ve become, how their so-called ‘friendship’ has only grown stronger now that Logan’s back on the grid.

Oscar’s parents know, but his own don’t. He’s too afraid - his family are traditional Floridians - could be the posterchilds of ‘MAGA.’Oscar’s never pressures him about it, which he is grateful for. Yet, his sexuality, his reality, weighs on him - almost more than the failures of his career does. 

One day, he hopes he’ll work up enough courage to finally tell his Mom.

Yet still they smile, they coexist, they commiserate.

He needs to open his mind up, he decides one stormy London day - weather keeping him inside - too afraid to face the hailstorm unlike Oscar on his ten mile run. 

These, vision, these dreams; ultimately whatever happens certainly comes to fruition. The green teddy bear, the overtake past Liam in Japan, the puncture with Oscar most recently in China. 

It’s an advantage. He’d be dumb to think otherwise.

It’s… seeing the future before the future even happens.

His first ever of these ‘premonitions’ swirls to the forefront of his mind. 

‘Logan Sargeant - 2029 World Champion.’

Could it be? Is he naive to hope?

All those months ago, now what seems like a lifetime away, on that Abu Dhabi balcony in that penthouse closer to the stars than to the ground.

Next time he is there, he could be a Formula One World Champion.

He wants it. His life goal. Everything he sacrificed his childhood for, something to make his parents, his lover, his peers, the entire world proud of him. 

It would mean that all his suffering wouldn’t have been for nothing.

It would mean that against all odds, he would win.

And so he does something he has never truly done before. 

He sits on the tiles of their apartment, closes his eyes and mediates - thinks of nothing, allows his mind to go blank.

Because maybe peacefulness is exactly what it will take to allow those visions into his mind, increase their frequency or their complexity. 

This… gift, this wish he had begged for has arrived on a silver platter.

He’d be a fool not to take this opportunity.

And so, he waits to welcome whatever may come to him.

SAUDI ARABIA

QIDDIYA CITY F1 CIRCUIT

“One lap remaining,” Jakob’s voice crackles through the radio, attempting to sound calm, but Logan can hear the barely-contained excitement in his race engineer’s tone. There’s no use masking it really - even if Jakob was more successful, Logan can hear the cheers, the anticipatory roar of his mechanics in the background. They know what’s coming. They can feel it.

Logan's heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst through his chest. He’s too afraid to even move his thumb to answer in case he somehow manages to fuck that up and end his dream, his race, prematurely. Everything in him is trembling—adrenaline, fear, joy—all battling for control.

This is it. This is his moment. Eleven corners stand between him and his first Formula One victory. Eleven more turns until the dream he’s chased his entire life finally becomes real.

On the curved ‘straight’ elevated high in the air that defines Qiddiya’s circuit, he glances into his rearview mirror. Charles is close. He can see the Ferrari closing in, DRS wide open, granting a twenty-kilometre speed advantage despite Logan's fresher tyres. 

Fresher tyres due to Pedro’s error - although he feels bad for his friend, he’s also never thanked a safety car more in his entire life.

Well, it wasn’t that much of a surprise, not really.

He saw this exact scenario happen three days ago.

He refused to pit when they wanted him to, pissing them all off so bad Toto had come on the radio to scold him, try to force him into line, into complicity.

Then Clerot lost it - the Haas always had a shitty issue of dangerous oversteer - it wasn’t really his fault. The safety car responded and so did Logan, finally diving into the pits for fresh mediums.

It was perfect.

But now, it’s all slipping away. He can feel the pressure—like sand slipping through his fingers, the race, the win—it’s all hanging by a thread.

He’s been here before. He’s seen this.

So why is he so fucking anxious he can’t even physically stretch his thumb to press a stupid fucking button?

Gripping the wheel tighter with his paralysed numb hands more than ever, the truth can’t be clearer. His advantage is shrinking, and Charles is right behind him, scarlet Ferrari red hot on his heels.

I can do this. He repeats the mantra in his head, like the reputation could do anything to calm him down. He’s done this before, he’s already lived this moment, even if it hasn’t actually been birthed into tangible existence yet. 

I can do this. I can do this. I can-

"Fuck!" The word tears out of him as he runs wide. The car slides, the tyres kicking up gravel and a cloud of dust, obscuring his vision for a too-quick heartbeat. 

Charles emerges from the dust. He isn’t going to lose this, is he?

No, no, no, panic floods him and he presses the accelerator down harder until he can feel the stiff carbon fibre of the car’s floor beneath the thin sole of his boots. C’mon, Logan! You’ve done this before—just four corners left! You can do this. You have to do this.

Everything he has sacrificed. 

Everything he has worked for.

He rounds the final corner, and the flag waves.

It’s done.

He’s won.

He’s won.

Logan doesn’t hear the radio at first. Doesn’t register the celebrations exploding around him. He’s sitting there, staring at his trembling hands on the steering wheel, as the weight of it sinks in.

He’s a Formula One race winner.

And finally he can press down the button. 

“Fuck! Fuck! I - Oh my God , yes! Yes!”

When he finally steps out of the car, his legs feel like jelly, but the noise—the cheers, the chants of his name—it hits him like a wave. With the last of his strength he leaps into the open arms of his team. 

The lights, the podium, the trophy waiting for him—it’s everything he’s ever wanted. 

And yet, when he stands on that top step, the world blurring into a sea of sound and light, he realises two things.

The first: this exact podium, he has seen before. That premonition before the season even started—the night race, the dust, the victory. It was always going to happen like this. And all this time, he’d been so afraid of when it would come that he hadn’t allowed himself to believe it.

The second: Champagne isn’t the only thing running down his face.

Tears accompany it.

Logan feels them before he even realises they’re there—hot, brutal tears spilling down his cheeks. They aren’t just from joy, but from the sheer magnitude of it all. Every hardship, every failure, every time he thought he wouldn’t make it, every time people told him he wasn’t good enough, every time he told himself he wasn’t good enough—it all led to this moment. 

For so long, he thought he’d never get here. He thought he’d never win.

But now, standing on the podium, the crowd chanting his name, the champagne sticky on his skin, he knows. He did it. He fucking did it.

And as the tears mix with alcohol he looks out over the crowd, his gaze seeking Oscar, but then on something—a green teddy bear. There, held by Jack Wolff, just like in his visions.

He almost laughs. 

That fucking bear.

He never should have doubted his premonitions in the first place.

Because now he , Logan Sargeant, is first place.

And atop the podium he allows himself to weep.

CANADA

CIRCUIT GILLES VILLENEUVE

His stomach rolls with nausea five minutes into the interview.

On the couch beside him, he can feel Oscar’s comfort - like the latter is physically shifting some soothing energy towards him. 

To be honest, it’d be a pretty shitty time to throw-up. 

Especially when so many reporters field their questions to him.

Is he happy about his win last race? Of course, couldn’t dream of anything better.

Does he think he can create the opportunity for a similar result on Sunday? Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The Mercedes has typically been weaker around Montreal, but with the support of his team they will all do their best to achieve optimum performance out of the car.

How does he feel about fans' reactions to his first win? Simply put, he tries not to use social media much anymore.

“A question for Oscar,” and Logan piques up, more interested in what the press have to say to his boyfriend rather than what they have to say to himself.

He looks over at him - a glance can’t be misconstrued into anything, right? Oscar blinks slowly, like he’s processing before he picks up his own microphone with a ‘yep.’

“This season, you have only won in Bahrain compared to this time last year you had won five races. Now that we are nine races into the season, how are you feeling about your chances for a third Championship title?”

Ouch. A direct comparison between two extremely different years, cars and lineups is harsh.

“Confident,” Oscar nods, and if it were Logan being asked he would have left the answer at that - snub the reporter and his shitty baited question.

But Oscar’s Oscar.

“-You’ve got a good grasp on results it seems, so then you’d know that I’m only thirty-one points behind Charles for the Championship.”

On the offence - Oscar doesn’t back down to these kinds of things.

“-We’ve seen before with - uh - Rosberg, Keke not Nico, that - uh - race wins aren’t the most necessary component to becoming a World Champion, so… yeah. Besides, we have twenty four races this year, and I’m just gonna’ be focussing on myself and trying to keep it consistent.”

“Adding onto that,” another reporter stands up, dark curls tied so tightly in a ponytail that Logan winces at the thought of the damage it must be doing to her hairline. “There’s been speculation about your declining performance as the result of a lack of focus on the team-”

Has there? Fuck, maybe he should actually get back on social media, no matter the scars of harm it done to his mental health in the past.

“How do you respond to that? Where is your focus?”

“It’s still on track,” the Australian responds but his face isn’t as neutral as it had been previously. Shit. Logan shuffles his weight on the sofa just enough knock a thigh into Oscar’s own firm ones, a reminder that ‘I’m here’ and ‘You’re okay.’

(And also, ‘don’t say anything that could get you cancelled please.’)

“To be honest-” the other starts and Logan winces - there is no amount of thigh-bumping or energy-signal-sending he can do to stop this. 

“-I don’t really know how to - uh - properly respond to this because it’s based on rumours. At least the other guy had some stats to back him up, like-”

He cuts himself off with a shake of his head - Aston Martin’s Colton Herta coughs and it breaks through the silence as the reporters, the cameras, hungrily hang onto his lover’s every and next word.

“I will win,” and there it is, the money shot, the death sentence. “Whether that’s on Sunday or in the future or relating to the Championship or whatever - I’ll leave it up for you to ‘speculate’ on. McLaren is my focus; driving is - always has been.”

And to save all their souls, Kravitz cuts the couch time early. 

“Osc-” he reaches out as they head off stage, but he’s too late - the Australian is already getting a proper talking to by his PR person.

Sarah looks at him like she knows. “Another interview with Sky in five, I’m sorry but we don’t really have time…”

Logan bites his lip. He’ll have to miss this opportunity to talk to Oscar; it’s strange that his usually nonchalant boyfriend is ruffled so much by a few stupid questions. 

I’ll catch up with him later, he shoves his hands into his Mercedes jacket - decision made.

“Let’s go,” and he follows her out the stage exit. 

But the nausea, only compounded by today’s events, stays.

The air is thick with the smell of burning metal, ash raining down from the sky like a hellish snowstorm. Screams pierce through the air, voices calling out in languages he doesn’t understand, but the fear… the fear is universal.

Logan's feet sink into the mud, cold and wet, splattered with blood. He can hear the distant wail of children, the heavy thud of boots running past him. Someone yells, and he instinctively ducks, only to see the body of a man slump forward beside him, eyes wide open, glassy and lifeless. His blood mixes with the mud, forming a sickening, thick sludge at Logan’s feet.

He’s not supposed to be here. This isn’t real.

But it feels real. Too real.

His heart pounds in his chest, faster than a flat out of Eau Rogue, faster than anything he’s ever felt before. He tries to breathe, but the air is suffocating, thick with smoke and fire. It burns his throat, his lungs. He’s choking, gasping for breath, panic clawing up his insides.

Logan’s vision blurs—he sees them. People running, clutching their children to their chests, their faces twisted in terror. Blood, so much blood. It stains their clothes, their hands. He sees a woman’s eyes, wide with shock, as she cradles a boy, no older than five, limp in her arms. She’s screaming, but no sound comes out.

It’s a war. He’s in the middle of a fucking war.

He blinks, and the scene shifts, sharp and violent. Explosions erupt on the horizon, the shockwave blasting through him, rattling his bones. Bodies are strewn across the ground like discarded dolls, unmoving, lifeless. His stomach churns. He can’t tear his eyes away from the faces. Eyes staring up at the dark sky, unblinking, forever frozen in their final moments.

The panic rises in his throat, faster than he can control it. He stumbles, his body jerking back to reality just in time for the bile to claw its way up his oesophagus. He barely makes it to the bathroom before the acid burns through his throat, hot and relentless. He heaves, gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl with trembling hands. His forehead presses against it, but he doesn’t care. Germs be damned. He just needs something solid. Something real to hold onto.

Chunks of vomit dribble from his lips, sour and bitter, as he struggles to breathe. His chest is tight, his heart slamming against his ribcage as if it’s trying to escape. The smell of sick mixes with the stench of war still clinging to his senses, and he retches again, dry-heaving now, desperate to expel whatever horror has invaded his mind.

His pulse thunders in his ears, but even through the haze, the vision persists. It’s the same as this morning, the same nightmare that struck him before the interviews, only now it’s more vivid. More intense. He can’t shake it, can’t unsee the faces, the blood, the horror.

He saw them. He felt them.

The mothers, their children. He can still see the way they clutched their little ones to their chests, desperate to protect them from the inevitable. The anger, the fear—it was all there, written across their faces, as real as anything Logan has ever known.

And then the blood. The ground was soaked with it, a deep, horrifying red that seeped into everything, tainting it with violence and death.

His hands shake as he lifts his head, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. The cold bathroom tiles beneath him feel like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, to the present.

What the hell did he just see?

Logan gasps, air rushing into his lungs in short, shallow breaths as he tries to piece it together. It’s not real. It can’t be real. But it felt real. His body is drenched in sweat, his pulse erratic, every muscle in his body tense as though he had been there—like he had lived it.

This wasn’t just a bad dream. This wasn’t some random nightmare triggered by pre-race nerves.

He could see it so clearly, just like-

It is real.

It is real, and not was real, because this… this hasn’t happened yet. 

“It’s real,” saying the words aloud - forcing his numb tongue to comply in shaping each syllable and vowel as if the mere movement could distract his from what he has just bore witness to.

“It’s real, it’s real, it’s real, it’s real, it’s-”

Logan gasps, air rushing into his lungs in short, shallow bursts, his heart racing. It’s not real. It can’t be real. But it *felt* real. His body is drenched in sweat, his pulse erratic, and every muscle in his body is tense, like he’s been there—like he’s lived it.

This wasn’t a bad dream. This wasn’t some pre-race nerves creeping into his subconscious. 

It was something else, something real.

His mind grapples with it, trying to make sense of the surreal, violent images that flashed before him—the faces, the destruction, the gut-wrenching panic that coursed through him. A war. Not just chaos, but war. The screams, the heat, the blood. 

Logan stares at his shaking hands, struggling to steady his breathing.

This hasn’t happened yet.

The thought lodges itself in his brain, growing heavier with each passing second. 

“It’s real,” he whispers, forcing his numb tongue to form the words. “It’s real, it’s real, it’s real, it’s r—”

He’s lost, spiralling in the chaos of his thoughts, when something pulls him back—a touch, sudden and warm on his shoulder. Logan jerks violently, his body instinctively recoiling as though burned by one of those explosions, his head snapping up in alarm. His breath catches in his throat, heart pounding in his chest.

“Logan?” 

Logan’s wide eyes dart around before finally landing on Oscar. For a moment, he can’t respond, the war still raging in the back of his mind, the screams and blood too fresh. It’s real. It’s real. It’s-

Oscar’s hand hovers for a second, then retreats as Logan tries to pull himself together. He can’t tell him—not this, not now. He doesn’t want to sound insane. The vision, the war, it’s too much. He doesn’t even know how to explain it.

“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. He pushes himself up from the cold porcelain of the toilet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice is strained, and he knows Oscar can hear the lie in it, but Logan ploughs on. “Must’ve eaten something bad. I’m... I’m okay now.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow slightly. He knows it’s bullshit. They eat most of their meals together, carefully monitored by their trainers. Their entire diet is controlled down to the last gram—there’s no room for random food poisoning. 

“You’re shaking,” Oscar murmurs, brow furrowing deeper. “Loges, what’s going on? I - I heard it from the hallway - what’s wrong?”

He knows the underlying question in his partner’s tone. Since last year when the weight limit was reduced from 70kg to 65kg to compromise for the ever-growing heavier cars, weight has been a sensitive issue for all the drivers even if they aren’t as brave as Valtteri was back in his day, to admit it. 

Still, eating has never been an issue for him, something now he realises and is glad about. Oscar… well, Oscar is a different story. Logan doesn’t like thinking too much about what happened last year.

“It’s not that,” he promises; something finally honest. “I’m okay, really, just I dunno’ been anxious all day - guess it finally caught up to me.”

So he’s already contradicted his first lie. But admitting to that is a lesser sin than the truth.

A damp piece of cold toilet paper presses against his forehead - Oscar’s eyes are still heavy with concern even though the fear and “Logan...”

Logan cuts him off, desperate to change the subject.

“What about you? You seemed off during the interviews today.” He shifts his weight, still feeling shaky, but focusing on Oscar helps ground him. “You were... irritated. That’s not like you.”

Oscar’s brows furrow, and for a moment, his concern for Logan softens as he looks down at the floor. “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess I’ve just... I haven’t been focused.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, going for sarcasm. “Focused? You? Unimaginable.”

Oscar laughs, but it’s hollow, tinged with frustration. “I know, right? I’ve been driving like shit. The car isn’t... it’s not responding the way it used to. I can’t seem to make it do what I want.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like I’m fighting it. I’m pushing, but it’s pushing back.”

Logan hums softly, and the sound is meant to be supportive, but inside, it echoes with a grim familiarity. The struggle Oscar is describing is exactly what Logan has dealt with for years—fighting a car that won’t bend to his will, no matter how hard he drives. Man versus machine. Only now, Oscar is starting to understand. *Finally*, Logan thinks, though the satisfaction is fleeting, tainted by guilt. He never wanted Oscar to go through what he did, to feel the crushing weight of underperforming, of failing to meet expectations.

And the media. God, the media. They’re relentless, tearing apart anyone who doesn’t meet their impossible standards.

Logan looks at Oscar, his heart tightening. As much as there’s a small, secret part of him that’s relieved Oscar can finally see what it’s been like, the overwhelming feeling is dread. He doesn’t want this for him. He doesn’t want Oscar to end up beaten down, exhausted, and depressed by the criticism. Not like me.

Oscar sighs again, rubbing his eyes. “The press is already starting to speculate. It’s like... they expect me to just keep winning, and when I don’t, they turn on me. I don’t know... I don’t know what’s happening.”

Logan takes a step closer, his earlier panic momentarily forgotten. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice steady. “You’re still the same driver you’ve always been. The car’s just... it’s not right. It happens. You’ll figure it out.”

Oscar gives him a weak smile, but the vulnerability in his eyes is rare, exposed in a way that makes Logan’s heart ache. It’s not often Oscar wears his heart on his sleeve like this, and seeing it now—seeing how much it’s affecting him—makes Logan want to protect him from all of it.

“I just...” Oscar starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t want to end up like—” 

“Like me? Like how I was?” Logan finishes for him, his voice soft but not bitter.

Oscar looks at him, surprised, but doesn’t deny it. “No, I just... I don’t want to fall into that spiral.”

“You won’t,” Logan says firmly, moving closer and wrapping his arms around Oscar. “You won’t. I’m not going to let that happen.”

They stand there for a moment, silent, as Logan holds Oscar tightly, his own fears and visions pushed to the back of his mind. He doesn’t want to think about what he saw, about the war, the blood. Right now, all that matters is that they’re here, together, and that’s enough.

“Thanks,” Oscar whispers, his voice muffled against Logan’s shoulder.

Logan kisses the top of his head. “Always.”

And as they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, Logan feels the weight of the world lift, just for a moment. Whatever happens next, whatever dark visions or struggles lie ahead, they’ll face it together. 

Oscar does win under the maple leaves in Montreal, fulfilling his promise made to the media; proving the doubters wrong. 

Logan shouts his praise from beneath - it had been an uneventful race on his side of things, a lousy P8, but all points are good points. 

ITALY

AUTODROMO INTERNAZIONALE ENZO E DINO FERRARI, IMOLA

“Yeah, dude!” he is moreso responding to Jakob in his words, but the way his voice breaks out of jovial excitement is all on him. “Yes! Thank you all so much, great work, great car.”

A podium. Silver.

Fuck - it feels invigorating - better than Suzuka. This time no safety car aided his result - that was all due to his focus, his desire, his hunger, his speed. 

Well, and also his ‘premonitions.’ That’s what he’s decided to name them, needing a label to make sense of this supernatural, unexplainable affair. He’s lucky it came to him during FP3 yesterday - and this time he actually had a handle on the car and didn’t let the realness of it all overwhelm like it did in China. 

Charles is top step - extending his lead. To be completely honest, the elder confuses Logan; everything about him is a walking red flag - matching the fireproofs he wears as they spray champagne on each other and then on the second Ferrari driver of Sainz. When his father was dying of cancer, the last thing Charles ever told him was a lie. 

If Logan’s dad got sick, even if their relationship obviously wasn’t as close as the Monagasque and his father, Logan doesn’t think, on a deathbed, he’d be able to lie.

Yet, that deceit that he had made it into Ferrari’  junior program, fulfilling the tragic wish of the first ever driver recruited to it - Jules - ended up being a success. Now he's leading the World Driver’s championship for the second time in his career. And at this point, Ferrari’s starboy is getting old - ever so much enforced by the new generations of talent constantly vying for an Formula One seat.

This may be the last real chance Charles has to make his shot, his lies, worth it.

Oscar scores P7 - McLaren had it hard this weekend with poor qualifying and Lando’s mechanical failure.

His lover gives him the details as they sit under the lowlights of an exclusive Italian restaurant, drinks in hand - this time a genuine pinot grigio that hasn’t been falsely advertised.

Oscar leaves half of his beef ragu on the plate.

Logan doesn’t mention it.

Instead, between sips of celebratory wine, he polishes his plate of risotto content and stomach full.

SPAIN

FORMULA 1 GRAN PREMIO D'ESPAÑA, MADRID

His second win is nothing like his first. There are no tears of joy. No joy at all really - the small part of him that shines in this newfound success withers away under the light and attention of cameras and press.

It’s the two-year anniversary of Pierre Gasly’s suicide.

On large screens, videos in memoriam play, overcasting the weekend - even if the driver was French, not Spanish. Fernando Alonso commentates, talks about how he preferred Gasly to Ocon which is harsh considering the fact that the other French driver is fighting back tears - a well deserved podium on the cards.

When asked about ‘men’s mental health’ he opens up about how difficult the 2024 season had been for him, explains it as to why he doesn’t have a social media page or presence.

A few drivers from the old days are here, supporting a now-deceased Pierre better than they did when he was still alive.

On a panel afterwards, Valterri Bottas makes his entrance, calm with zero ulterior motives  - exposes the struggles of athletes and expands on his own struggles with food throughout his career. Logan can’t help but glance at Oscar who sits as still as a statue, no expression discernable on his features.

Oscar DNF’d. 

Logan won.

That night he dreams of a fucking hospital bed, wires on clammy hands, a brain scan that is filled with white matter, a green fuzzy thing like moss.

Nothing makes sense.

The next day there are no pictures of Pierre, no sullen messages online. 

Instead everyone is talking about the rise of Mercedes, or Vesti’s test in IndyCar or this new kid winning Formula Four who is certain to be a champion one day.

Logan gets on a plane.

He remembers the beautiful portrait in Mon Cherry, how the rumours of if there was more to Yuki and the Frenchman’s relationship never concluded in resolution amongst the speculation.

The world moves on.

AUSTRIA

RED BULL RING

Austria comes and goes.

Logan doesn’t even feel present for it. 

Nightmares keep him awake. Dreams, visions, haunt him when he is awake.

He hasn’t slept in thirty-eight hours come raceday.

Oscar hasn’t eaten for thirty-eight hours.

He could care less about what happens during the race. He drives on autopilot - everything already certified, paved and planned out for him. 

He sees Jack Wolff connected to wires on a hospital bed, teddy bear at his side.

Celebrating Oscar’s win, he sips at his martini, trying to forget,

He sees his mother’s face - blue and red and white like the American flag - gasping for strained breath - eyes bloodshot, veins across her cheeks bursting.

He orders a round of tequila shots and downs the extra - salt stinging his tongue.

He sees the world burn, empires fall, another Pompei as the world melts under it’s own selfish strain.

He has the best sleep of his life.

It takes him a hangover cure with a raw egg, poached ones for himself and his lover that he spends time curating, and a nice sunrise to understand it.

Alcohol blacks him out. 

When he loses consciousness, he doesn’t dream.

Oscar’s booked the hotel for another three days. It;s their anniversary holiday - before Silverstone and the mid-season break.

They go out for dinner and Logan orders them drinks. 

This way he can get a double without his boyfriend questioning him.

They both have a whiskey at the hotel. 

When Oscar showers he pours himself another glass, the room spinning.

“Regular coke?” Oscar asks as he towels off, unabashed.

Logan eyes the dark leg hair spattered over his calf muscles.

“Diet,” he jokes, honest, and figures that’s probably the wrong thing to say. 

“Well,” the Australian shrugs, voice taught. “Don’t have too much caffeine. You move around enough already.”

Ah, the fight for the duvet - a lover's spat.

“I won't,” he sips from his glass, not mentioning the depressant in it. 

This will knock him out. 

He’ll get not one, but two good nights of sleep in a row.

And on top of that, he muses, swirling around his icecubes and watching the hockey as Oscar excuses himself to bed. This is science really. Testing a hypothesis. Calculating a result.

Another double in and he wakes up on the sofa. He didn’t quite make it to the bedroom.

Seventeen hours later he only has one glass of Shiraz over their anniversary dinner. 

“Osc-” the words get caught in his throat. Mayhaps he’s still half-drunk, mayhaps the hangover has made him cranky - more outspoken that usual.

Biting back his words, he motions his fork at his lover’s plate.

The unspoken words are understood by both of them.

But unlike usual, Oscar shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he sips from his wine glass - buying time. “I’m all good.”

Logan quirks an eyebrow.

“Really,” Oscar looks him dead in the eye. “I’m okay.”

Logan cuts into his Scotch Fillet. 

They’ve done this song and dance before. Not a million times, but enough.

Enough that he really should know better.

But it’s their anniversary. Seven years.

So he doesn’t speak, doesn’t drink anymore and kisses Oscar’s forehead as they lie in bed together.

One drink. That’s all he had.

Nightmares seize him. Fire, screams, pain, suffering.

He finalises his faux science report.

Conclusion: one drink is not enough to stop it.

ENGLAND

SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT

He’s on a beach.

At first he thinks it’s Australia - Oscar’s hometown and he makes a one-eighty to view to colourful ‘Brighton Boxes’ behind him. But there are no colourful pastels or vibrant shades there - instead there is just more families, more people, more sand. More sand until he looks up and sees skyscrapers.

Where am I? He ruminates as he takes in his surroundings. This place is  foreign to him. 

He looks back at the ocean. There are children swimming - bright floaties wrapped around their arms. There is happiness and celebration in the calm - along with a few brave surfers at the back.

Perhaps this is a peaceful dream. 

He looks over at the sea. It is gentle in it’s being - soft waves, actually almost nothingness which is sure to frustrated those few surfers as waves lap further and further from the sure.

A child giggles in their delight. Logan’s heart aches. Maybe he really should bring up the conversation of children to Oscar soon - he’s always wanted to be a father. One better than the one he has - who fought with his uncle, who almost went to prison for years for fraud. It’s not really like it would have affected him, if his Dad didn’t bribe his way out of a sentence - Logan had never been close to his father.

It was his mother who he spoke to - nights on the phone when left in Sweden at eleven years old, post-races in England at fourteen and on those rare Floridian summers when he could be at home by the beach. 

This shoreline, the one he is on, is strangely silent. No waves lapping at the sand. No sting of salt in the air as he breathes.

And then, he sees it.

Inconspicuous at first. Just another wave.

But then he really sees it.

Far in the distance, a monstrous wall of water swells, growing impossibly tall, roaring with a terrifying force. The sea, no longer calm or blue, transforms into a churning mass of deep, angry grey, streaked with white froth as it surges forward. Logan’s heart pounds against his ribcage, his chest tightens, and the sound — God, the sound — is deafening. It's not just water crashing; it's buildings crumbling, cars being tossed like toys, glass shattering, and the horrifying screams of people trying to flee but knowing there's no escape.

The wave rushes closer, gaining speed, feeding on its own power, becoming a towering beast that eclipses everything in its path. The sky darkens, heavy with moisture, almost as though it’s folding into the water below. In the vision, Logan can feel the icy sting of sea spray on his face, the sharp tang of salt filling his mouth as he gasps for breath, paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of what he’s witnessing.

People scatter along the shoreline, tiny figures frantically running but with nowhere to go. A mother grabs her child, pulling him desperately, her face twisted in terror. Logan can see their expressions — eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams, frozen in that primal moment of understanding: they won’t outrun this. And Logan knows that too. His pulse races, stomach twisting violently as the tsunami bears down, its massive form blocking out the sun. The water is so high now that it seems to stretch into the heavens, a godlike force ready to swallow the earth whole.

The wave crashes into the coastline with a sickening roar. The impact is unlike anything Logan has ever seen — a tidal wall smashing into buildings, trees, everything in its way. Concrete shatters, wood splinters, and the ground itself seems to buckle under the weight. Cars are flung through the air, tumbling like leaves in a hurricane. The force of the water is unimaginable, sweeping everything into a chaotic, swirling vortex of debris, bodies, and destruction.

The sea, once an ally of beauty and peace, becomes a weapon of wrath. The water engulfs the streets, rushing through alleys and homes, sweeping away everything in its path — drowning the city in an instant. Logan can hear the sharp cracks of buildings collapsing, roofs being torn apart, and then, worse than all of it, the muffled cries that are swallowed by the unrelenting tide. The sheer violence of it makes his skin crawl, bile rising in his throat.

And still, it doesn’t stop. The wave continues to consume, obliterate, annihilate. Water floods every crevice, submerging cars, smashing storefronts. He sees faces beneath the surface, their features twisted in panic as they’re swept away, their hands outstretched as if grasping for something, anything, to hold onto.

The vision lingers in excruciating detail — Logan’s breathing shallow, chest heaving as he stares in helpless terror at the devastation unfolding before him. His mind screams at him to move, to do something, but his body is frozen in place, locked by the sheer, overwhelming power of nature’s fury.

And then, as quickly as it came, the wave begins to recede, leaving behind a barren wasteland of destruction. Buildings are reduced to rubble, streets are flooded and twisted, and the bodies — so many bodies — lie still, motionless, scattered across what was once a thriving city.

Logan gasps as he snaps out of it, chest heaving, hands shaking uncontrollably. The stench of salt and decay lingers in his nose, even though he knows he’s far away from the real danger. Yet it felt real — too real — and the horror of it remains, gnawing at his insides.

“What’s wrong?” there’s movement in the duvets, his warmth shucked off as he heard Oscar’s voice beside him. “Logan? What’s happening?”

He pants for air, anything but the drowning sensation that burnt his lungs and choked him, but the blue of the wave turns into the blue of his bedsheet.

He’s okay, he’s safe, it was all just a dream.

 And he wishes he could be as naive as that.

“M’ okay,” he says because physically he is. He’s fine. He’s not drowning. He’d not dead like the others.

Screams, begs, wails accompany him as he eats Oscar’s scrambled eggs.

HIs boyfriend is only having a coffee - ninety percent water, ten percent skim milk.

“I think I need to go to Japan,” he says, a realisation and Oscar frowns.

“Sorry?”

Trepidation fills his body.

“I need to go to Japan,” he repeats, more certain this time.

“You-” Oscar pauses his sip from his coffee, almost sputtering it onto the marble countertop. “We - We have media day tomorrow.”

That doesn’t matter, he wants to refute.

Instead of speaking he pulls out his phone. 

‘Flights’ the device reads.

The next flight is in three hours.

“I have to go,” he adds actions to his words; getting up and throwing a few random shirts and pants into his suitcase

“Loges,” Oscar sits up - sheets rustling. “What is going on?”

“Japan,” he repeats like it all will make sense. This tsunami, this horror story-turned-soon- reality surely happens there. The more he ruminates on his dream, the more it makes sense. Japan’s history, the people on the beach, the language he hadn’t realised was around him 

“What?”  he pauses - “What are you talking about?”

“My dream,” he squeezes underpants into the small space of his luggage. “I have to go.”

“Media is tomorrow, Logan. You can’t leave,” his lover repeats and he pauses from shoving random shit into his bag.

“No, Osc-” he refutes. “‘I’ll be back for the race. ”

Logan zips the suitcase shut, the sound loud and final in the quiet room. His hands are trembling, the adrenaline making his movements jerky. He throws the bag over his shoulder, glancing at Oscar, who’s still watching him with a look of disbelief.

“Logan, stop,” Oscar’s voice breaks the silence, softer now, as if hoping a gentler tone will make him reconsider. “You can’t just—leave like this.”

“I have to.” Logan’s voice is barely a whisper, but the conviction is there. He grabs his phone and wallet from the nightstand, shoving them into his pocket, then glances at the clock. He has just enough time to make it to the airport.

Oscar gets out of bed, the sheets falling away, leaving him standing there, vulnerable, in the dim light of the room. “Logan, this isn’t rational,” he says, a plea hidden beneath his frustration. “You’re chasing a dream. You said yourself it’s just a dream.”

But it’s more than a dream. Logan’s heart pounds harder in his chest. He can still feel the terror from that vision—the rush of water, the screams, the faces. It’s too real, too vivid to dismiss.

“I know how it sounds, but—” Logan’s words tumble out, desperate, frantic. He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, slipping it on. “I can’t explain it. I don't have time to.”

Oscar stands there, looking at him like he’s slipping away. He takes a step forward, his hand reaching out as if to stop him, but Logan is already moving toward the door. “What are you going to do in Japan, Logan?"

He swings the door open, stepping out into the cold hallway. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air suffocating as he rushes toward the elevators. He can still hear Oscar calling his name, the sound muffled by the pounding in his ears, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

The elevator ride down feels agonisingly slow, each floor ticked off a reminder of how little time he has. When the doors finally open, he pushes through the lobby, out into the brisk night air. His heart is racing, but a strange calm settles over him, a sense of purpose he can’t explain.

He manages to call a taxi, and as he slides into the back seat, he pulls up his phone to confirm his flight. It’s still there—three hours to go. 

“Where to?” the driver asks, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“Airport. As fast as you can.” Logan leans back against the seat, staring out at the darkened streets, his mind racing just as fast as the car. The city blurs by, a whirlwind of lights and shadows, but all he can see is that beach, the faces, the water rising.

At the airport, he rushes through security, barely registering the world around him. He doesn’t stop for anything, doesn’t check the news, doesn’t pause to second-guess himself. It’s as if he’s running on pure instinct, driven by something far greater than logic.

Finally, he boards the plane. As he buckles his seatbelt, Logan’s hands are still shaking, his mind filled with images he can’t shake. He stares out the window, watching the tarmac slip away as the plane climbs into the sky, carrying him toward whatever awaits in Japan.

Oscar’s voice echoes in his head, the doubt, the worry—but it’s too late now. He’s already gone, chasing the unknown.

In fairness to himself, he doesn't go to Japan. At first.

He goes to Yuki’s UK-based restaurant only to find he isn’t there. After a quick Google search, he finds that it’s Jean-Jaques's fourth birthday in three days so then he catches  Red-Eye to Tokyo.

He swerves through the bodies of people, suitcase dragging behind him in vain, when he begs to be let past the oakwood door - praying for a miracle. 

His begging gets him inside, and he finds Yuki in the kitchen.

“I need your help.”

“Logan! Congrats on your wins,” the Japanese man barely sounds surprised to see him - like Formula One drivers just waltz into his restaurants every day - which - well, which is probably true in fairness.

“This isn’t about that.”

“Okay?”

“A tsunami’s coming.”

And that makes the shorter man pause.

He tells him about his premonition - shuffled into the back offices of Yuki’s empire.

“All I know, is that I could see the city behind me,” he explains, crossing his arms against his chest. “There was a lighthouse too.”

“Was there…. A number on the lighthouse?”

“I -” Logan starts before shaking his head in defeat. “I couldn’t see one.”

He was a little preoccupied. With the surfers and the children and the screaming and the fear and the pain.

The elder nods, looking to the side. “Okay. Then we call all of them.”

And relief, like a wave, washes over him.

Finally someone listens, finally someone believes.

“You must clear the beach,” his fear makes his voice strain, and he waits as Yuki translates into rapid Japanese, “The weave pattern is unusual - this is a disaster, not a hoax.”

Syllables fall out of the man’s mouth over the phone line. Logan looks to Yuki, helpless, as the other’s face shifts.

“He says it is fine,” the ex-driver frowns. “We call another one?”

And they do.

Sirens ring out across Japan when they finally select the right lighthouse, the right shoreline. Akemi cries - Yuki holds her in his strong arms.

“Elsie and Jay-Jay are in the countryside with my parents,” he explains, rocking the newborn. “They will be safe.”

The latter of his words sounds more like a hopeful wish than a statement. Logan waits with him - prays with him. Logged into Oscar’s account, media displays his absence from press conferences. He types an apology to Toto claiming illness.

The wave does eventually come.

Only eleven people die compared to the hundreds he saw in his dream.

Still, it’s too many. If he made his claim more urgent, perhaps everyone could have listened to him.

Yuki looks at him in horror, in admiration, when the storm finally ends. “How did you know?”

“I had a dream.”

“Dreams cannot explain this.”

“I don’t know what else can.”

A moment of silence falls between them both - the infant in a peaceful sleep in Yuki’s arms.

“You saved them.”

Logan scratches the back of his skull. “I dunno’ about that-”

“No,” a hand presses against his own. “Thank you, Logan. Thank you.”

Yuki offers him a futon to sleep on in the privacy of his own home. It's only then, as he's getting ready for bed,  he realises he forgot to bring toothpaste.

And missing Thursday’s media was worth it, he ruminates on the flight back. Some random kid replaces him for Friday at Silverstone. When he returns he speaks nothing of his absence - just getting into the car on Saturday and getting P3 in FP3 then a place above it in qualifying.

When he stands on the podium the next day he feels like a winner.

He saved lives. He used his powers, finally, for good. A good beyond racing, a good beyond himself.

Perhaps wishing on the stars that day was not a curse, but rather a gift.

MID-SEASON BREAK

ENGLAND, LONDON

Despite his well-intentioned actions in Japan, very quickly Logan realises this ability to see into the future is not a gift like he had hoped. 

He hasn’t been able to get an interrupted eight hours of sleep since Silverstone. Either he can’t sleep - tossing and turning and pissing Oscar off, or he wakes up in a cold terror so opposite to his night-sweats that accompany him.

His boyfriend asks him about it - why they have the change the sheets all the time. Changing sheets used to be an indicator of their sex life, if it was good, explosive, godly - but now every time Oscar tries to start something with him, Logan shields away - interrupted by a vision or his insecurities.

The younger never comments.

Instead, his protest is shown through the lack of breakfasts Logan wakes up to. No poached eggs, not even scrambled ones. And if Logan doesn’t get breakfast, it means Oscar isn’t eating either. 

One day he catches the other criticising his reflection - pinching his skin at fat that barely exists - the small percentage that keeps their bodies alive is something that Logan cherishes. 

He tries to show it once, perhaps one month into their summer break, but his mother’s popping veins in across her forehead - in the whites of her eyes - interrupt their moment. She looks like a white-walker from Game of Thrones. He’s never witnessed anything so disgusting, so terrifying.

Oscar calms him from his unexplained panic attack.

There isn’t much intimacy to salvage after that.

He sits outside of the Mercedes factory - using the excuse of needing fresh air. The clean oxygen is helpful in fairness, but honestly, he just can’t be bothered with people, with connections, with the charade he has to put up every time he’s around someone to pretend he’s okay.

Thu-Thunk. Thu-Thunk. Thu-Thunk.

With a stifled groan he lifts his head up from the concrete slab he’d been dozing off on - trying desperately to catch up on sleep his body craves and requires.

Thu-Thunk. Thu-Thunk.

It takes him a moment to recognise the distinct, repetitive noise making him look away from the treeline, blinking away the sunlight that scorches his eyes.

The sound is a handball - the squeaky little bouncy balls he used to play with back in elementary. And the person throwing it against thew wall is none other than Jack Wolff. 

“Hi,” he tries to muster up as much of a casual ‘I’m-talking-to-a-twelve-year-old’ tone as he can manage.

Jack Wolff stops bouncing his hand-held handball. “Hi.”

“How… are you?” he asks then immediately cringes. The kid has cancer that’s not being treated or cured. Obviously, he’s not doing great.

“I’m fine,” Jack shrugs, tossing the ball back at the wall.

Thu-Thunk. Thu-Thunk.

“Do you really feel that, or is that what your Dad wants you to say?”

Thu-Thunk.

The ball stops again.

“I’m fine,” the twelve-year-old repeats - sterner - and Logan can see who he got that from. “Just tired.”

Logan runs his tongue over the back of his bottom teeth - trying to find words that seem impossible to say. “How is karting going?”

The younger sags against the wall - dizziness, fatigue - those are symptoms of cancer right?

“Badly,” he says, accent shining through. “My Mum thinks I’m depressed.”

Logan blinks. “I used to be, back when my career-”

He motions a rocket falling to the floor and then exploding.

At the very least it makes the preteen chuckle.

“-But,” he continues - not wanting that to be what the younger takes out of this conversation. “Maybe you’re tired or unhappy because of other things, like-”

How can he explain this? When the mind wants to fight but the body fails it?

And the one thing he lands on is the one thing he’s promised to never tell anyone.

“You know Oscar?”

Jack frowns at him. “Piastri?”

Logan wets his lips, knowing all too well he is breaking an oath. “Yeah.”

“I mean,” the younger shrugs, tossing the ball hand to hand. “Not personally, but yeah.”

“He-” Logan swallows. “He used to be sick, like - a few years ago - no one really knew about it, but, in his head, he wanted to do super well but his body was just… unhealthy. Fighting against him, not with him.”

He searches Jack’s face, hoping to find a spark of recognition, like a puzzle clicking into place - even though terminal cancer and eating issues aren’t exactly in the same boat it’s the only thing he could think of and-

“Huh,” the boy shrugs. “That’s sad.”

Logan turns his head back towards the treeline, trying not to remember that one night he found Oscar barely conscious in the shower that one time, trying not to remember when the Australian had finally woken up he’d begged and sobbed for Logan not to call an ambulance or his dietician or his trainer or the McLaren mental health team.

“But, he got better.”

A lie.

“True, now he’s a two-time World Champion.”

And the childlike awe in his voice makes Logan smile. 

“Yeah,” he returns, wistfully. “He is.”

The sudden sharpness of a phone ringtone makes them both jump.

“Ah,” Jack pulls his phone out of his pocket. “It’s my Dad.”

Right - Toto - his boss.

“Answer it,” he hums gently, not wanting to get the younger boy in trouble. “But, Jack?”

The German boy turns around, to face him. “Yeah?”

“If you ever feel bad, for any reason at all, you… should tell someone. It doesn’t have to be your parents\, it can be anyone - your trainer or - or even me or something. If you want.”

Why did he include himself in that list? Jesus Christ, now he’s coming off as some pervy dude talking to the boss's son in an unmonitored alleyway behind the fucking Headquarters - God, he’s so stupid-

“I will,” the other gives him a small smile, the phone still ringing in his palm. “And Logan?”

Ah, this is it - he’s gonna get fired. “Y-Yeah?”

“Thank you,” the twelve-year-old says and Logan stares up dumbly at him. “Thank you for not treating me like a child. Ya know’ having a grown-up conversation - actually listening to me.”

And before Logan can respond the other has his phone pressed to his ear speaking rapid German. He can’t catch any of it - all he can do is watch as the younger walks away, bouncing his handball and hope something he said made a difference.

With a sigh he leans back against the wall, resting his head on the cold concrete.

Thu-Thunk. Thu-Thunk. Thu-Thunk.

And the sound is peaceful. In the sun, on the floor, he feels his brain finally drift off to a short, calm, slumber.

His dreams are filled with a crumpled car. It feels important. Like he should know who's involved in this accident. It happens in Eau Rogue, he realises after the third time he sees it, a track that has taken so many lives before.

Sometimes his own car - like he;s watching from the crowd or a commentator’s perspective is also in the carnage. Most times it isn’t. Most times it all happens so fast he can’t recognise the torn-up livery of the car; all he can see in the defibrillator as it meets skin, the cries of a family he can’t recognise, the death of someone he knows, but doesn’t know.

It repeats every night.

Logan tries to drink, but it isn’t enough.

Other nights he tries caffeine - Red Bulls, espressos, but it always ends the same: a car into the barrier, the mourning of thousands. 

Whenever Oscar asks him ‘what’s wrong’ he lies.

It’s a bad habit now - something he shouldn’t be proud that he’s good at.

The vision, this vision haunts him all throughout the mid-season break, follows around him like a dark cloud as Mercedes brings him back to the factory - a million simulations, a million scenarios.

The one that never changes is the death of a driver

And he fears it more than his own death itself.

They go to China before the season starts. Oscar’s really leaning into his whole ‘one-sixteenth-nationality-therefore-Shanghai-could-be-considered-my-home-race’ thing which Logan finds a bit silly but the media over here are obsessed with it. Besides, Oscar’s capitalised on the opportunity really - even learned to speak a business-proficient level of Mandarin - he’s doing so right now as Logan just peers at his surroundings.

Just because he’s there, sometimes he’s in the background as they film things. They’re walking through this cool ancient city, obviously a trap for tourists, but Logan finds that he doesn’t mind. They went to the Great Wall yesterday, and that was pretty sick, and the stones used to build it were old, just like the bricks of this town.

A wood carving catches his eye.

He taps it, hoping that even just touching the intricate carving isn’t offensive, and the shopkeeper comes trundling towards him. 

“Uh-” he already feels lost in the language barrier. “What is this?”

She responds in words he can’t understand.

He stares at the carving - it’s beautiful. It’s a circle, but the circle has - like - scales and the hint of a face.

“Logan?” one of the PR people taps him on the shoulder.

Feeling like he’s been caught red-handed at doing something he spins around. “Oh, hi.”

“You want to buy this?” she questions, looking down at the carving. “I can ask the price for you.”

“Uh,” he’s still stumbling over his words, even though she speaks fluent English. “I was kinda wondering what it was? Like, what it means.”

The very helpful PR lady strings out a few syllables and Logan waits patiently as the shopkeeper responds. 

“It is a dragon,” she says and aha - that’s where the scales tie in. “It can also be a snake. The creature is eating itself, you see?”

Logan strains his eyes to look closer at the artwork, and she’s right. “Woah.”

As he does so, a few more phrases get thrown around and then translated back to him. 

“It is a circle. It represents endless self-destruction and being born again.”

“A cycle,” he considers it, and immediately feels like a jackass when he comes off as trying to correct her.

“Exactly,” she doesn’t seem put-off by his miscommunication. 

“I would like to buy it, if it’s on sale,” and the negotiations begin - he can tell they are haggling over price, the PR lady looks a bit frustrated.

“I-” he interrupts, then pulls out a wad of yuan. “I want to pay double her asking point. It is very beautiful.”

The shopkeeper dips her head, a bright smile on her face as she gives over the wooden plank. 

Logan pulls out the only Mandarin he knows ‘xie xie’ which he definitely butchers, but they all seem happy when the transaction is over.

“Whaddya’ get?” Oscar bumps his shoulder. 

Oh shit, they must have been waiting for him before they moved on to the next section of filming. 

“This cool thing,” he presents it to his boyfriend, and Oscar hums, clearly not very impressed by the elaborate line-work.

“A snake.”

“Well,” Logan stammers. “It’s a dragon, obviously , snakes don't have these little horn things.”

The younger laughs. “Well I’ll see my zodiac and you can see yours.”

Logan pouts, carefully returning the wooden sculpture thing back to his bag. “You just don't have the artist-vision like I do.”

And when Oscar smiles again, Logan swears it brightens up the entire universe.

HUNGARY

THE HUNGARORING

He smells smoke.

Flames swirl around him and Logan blinks, hoping he will snap out of this vision, praying it will be a quick one. He should be racing. He;’s worked hard - a hundred simulations of each turn of the Hungaroring spinning around his mind until he barely knows where the laps begins and where it ends.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t hear screaming nor any explosions - perhaps this isn’t a war - perhaps this is another natural disaster like how the tsunami was, or a camping trip gone wrong.

Heat. It’s all he feels. The flames lap closer, when he opens his eyes he sees them - dancing, enticing him like a snake to a flute tune - irresistible to be swayed by - dangerous yet tame. 

Snakes. Are there snakes? There are snakes in Australia. Oscar is Australian and he is the Year of the Snake. 

Perhaps he can try figure out where this smoke, where these flames are coming from, maybe he can try to stop it.

His fingertips burn.

He looks down. He’s wearing gloves.

There is yelling in his ears. He can’t really make it out - it’s crackled like how the fire sound yet he can detect the fear inside of it. God, is he going to have to watch someone die? He can’t really deal with that right now. He’s supposed to be racing.

“-gan?”

Huh?

“Logan?!”

Wait, does someone in this vision know him?

He tries to turn around but he’s constricted. It’s then he realises he is sitting. He never sits during visions. He’s always standing - high above everyone else - watching as their worlds come to an end. 

“Logan,” and is that Jakob? No, it sounds deeper - who does he know who has a deep voice - who has he raced with that could be in a place that could easily be engulfed by flames?

“The marshalls are coming,” that accented voice rings through again and is he in a car? Yes! He is! He unbuckles his seatbelt, the metal is hot. His gloves feel like they’re melting.

What race track is he at? He can use this for future reference. Make sure not to end up in this situation. That would be good - not burning alive. He’s no Grossjean, that’s for sure. Can’t rise from the ashes like a phoenix - he’s not quite brave enough, strong enough for all that.

“Logan?” why the fuck does this guy keep repeating his name?

He’ll wake up soon - in fact, maybe it’s Oscar trying to shake him awake. Maybe the race hasn’t started yet. Maybe they’re still in the hotel room-

“Please,” and that’s when he recognises it.

He scrambles for the radio button, incredulous. “Toto?”

“Get out of the car,” it’s such a simple command Logan tries to follow it - unlatching his wheel from its structure and placing it on the hood of his monocoque. 

“I’m-” he says, to no one, but smoke fills his lungs and he splutters off into a cough. No premonition has hurt like this. He’s been able to feel it, yes - the fear, the pain of others around him, but now there is no distress - he can’t feel anything except for the heat - except for the flames.

Wait, is this real?

Oh fuck. 

Is this actually real?

Terror seizing his body he forces himself to move, leaping out of the cockpit guided by nothing but blind faith and immediately the smoke in front of him clears - only to be replaced by white fog. 

A fire extinguisher he belatedly realises as he breathes in deep, lungs protesting once again.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, how long was he in that car? In the cockpit? Is he even alive right now or will he wake up soon?

This isn’t a dream.

He doesn’t think he could ever imagine Toto’s face when he arrives back to the garages - shaking off a medical trip with an ‘I’m okay.’

“You’re not,” the Austrian guesses truthfully. “Do not refuse medical advice. Go now.”

And so he does - hangs his head low as the cameras follow him. 

He really feels fine.

He doesn’t even remember hitting the wall, or any of his crash in honesty. If it were traumatic he’d be able to recall it. Ha - he knows that all too well. Besides he’s not dead - in another vision he saw how he’d die and that's not until decades away. He’s basically immortal until he’s fifty years old.

“Why didn’t you get out of the car?”

Oscar’s here. Huh. Logan blinks, his vision adjusting to the dim lights of the hospital room. He’s been told he crashed midway through the race, so unless Oscar also fucked it into the barriers, how is he here?

A hand grasps his own, warm and steady, and that familiar touch pulls him further from the haze clouding his mind. “It’s eight, Loges. Everyone’s gone home.”

What? 

Logan’s brow furrows as he tries to process the words. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first, his throat dry and raw, like sandpaper. He swallows hard, blinking rapidly as his eyes dart around the room. It’s quiet, eerily quiet, and the sterile smell of the hospital hits him full force.

“I…” He fumbles, his mind still sluggish, his body not quite catching up to reality. “What do you mean? It was—” Logan stops himself. How is it already eight? He was just in the car, on track. He could still feel the vibration of the engine, the tight grip of the steering wheel in his hands.

Oscar squeezes his hand gently, his thumb brushing over Logan’s knuckles. “You stayed in the car after the crash, Loges. You didn’t get out for a long time..”

Logan blinks again, trying to recall the moment, but it’s all a blur. The crash, the screech of tyres, the impact—

“I don’t—” Logan shakes his head slightly, as if that would clear the fog in his brain. “I don’t remember.” 

Oscar’s face is soft with worry, eyes searching Logan’s for something—anything that will explain what happened. But Logan doesn’t have the answers. He’s as lost as Oscar looks.

“It’s okay.” Oscar’s voice is calm, but Logan can hear the strain underneath, the concern bleeding through. “You’re okay now. That’s all that matters.”

Logan exhales slowly, letting the words wash over him, though they don’t quite settle. Why didn’t he get out of the car? Why can’t he remember? 

Well, he kinda can - the flames, the smoke, the crackling. He thought it wasn’t real. That’s why he stayed.

“I thought you—” Logan starts, but his voice cracks. “How are you here? Shouldn’t you be… still racing?” He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain in his ribs pulls him back down. He winces, and Oscar is immediately at his side, one hand resting lightly on Logan’s chest, urging him to stay still.

“They stopped the race after your crash,” Oscar explains softly, his other hand still holding Logan’s. “I left as soon as I could.”

Logan stares at him, confused. “They stopped… because of me?”

Oscar nods, his expression a mix of relief and lingering fear. “Yeah. You hit the wall hard, Loges. We were all worried. I was—” He pauses, swallowing thickly, and Logan can see it now—the exhaustion on Oscar’s face, the dark circles under his eyes. He must’ve been sitting here for hours.

Logan’s heart sinks. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar’s hand tightens around his. “Don’t apologise. You’re okay. That’s all that matters to me.” His voice is firm now, leaving no room for argument. But there’s something else in his eyes—something that tells Logan there’s more Oscar isn’t saying.

“I should’ve gotten out,” Logan mutters, the guilt creeping in. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Oscar shakes his head, his thumb still tracing soothing circles on Logan’s skin. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re safe.” 

Logan exhales, the tension slowly easing from his body as he lets Oscar’s words sink in. He’s safe. He’s here. And so is Oscar. 

A silence falls between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Logan can feel the warmth of Oscar’s presence beside him, grounding him in a way nothing else can. The confusion, the panic, it all fades away, leaving behind only a quiet understanding. 

He looks up at Oscar, their eyes meeting, and for the first time since the crash, Logan feels something close to peace. “Thanks for being here,” he murmurs.

Oscar’s lips curve into a small smile, the first real one Logan’s seen all night. “Where else would I be?” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Logan’s forehead. “Get some rest, Loges.”

Logan’s eyes flutter closed as Oscar’s hand remains in his, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comfort. For the first time in hours, Logan lets himself relax, the weight of the crash, the confusion, all of it slipping away as he drifts off to sleep. 

He’ll deal with the collateral tomorrow. The press, the team, the damaged car, the unanswered questions. 

Right now, he just wants to close his eyes  - fall into oblivion where nothing matters.

And mayhaps the drugs pumping through his IV drip, or the exhaustion of almost burning to death lets his mind fade to darkness, because, for the first time since Austria, he sleeps without any nightmares.

BELGIUM

CIRCUIT DE SPA-FRANCORCHAMPS

The disappointment hits him hard, but the barrier hits him harder.

There’s no smoke. No flames. No visions.

“I’m okay,” he presses down on the radio button, remembering the last race. “Shit, sorry. What happened there?”

“We'll discuss after,” Jakob replies, curtly. “As long as you’re okay.”

He jumps out of the vehicle with a groan. The first two races of the second-leg of the championship and they’re both DNFs. 

The championship is slipping through his fingers.

Refusing any help, he sits on the side of the racetrack - watching the debris clear; his failures whisked away by quick broom-movements and a yellow recovery tractor.

He crashed. Again. 

At least this time isn’t too bad. No big fire, no confusing mess, no blurred line between the reality of now and the reality of what’s to come.

In fact, he’d even go out on a limb and say it wasn’t his fault.

Logan leans back, elbows resting on his knees, helmet discarded beside him as he watches the marshals work. His head’s still spinning from the impact, but the numbness, that familiar fog of disbelief, hasn’t left him. He should feel something—frustration, anger—but all that’s left is exhaustion.

His mind is miles away from Spa, drifting between what’s real and what his gut keeps pulling him toward.

He glances over at Liam’s Red Bull, the car even more of a mess than his own. The rear wing hangs at a crooked angle, carbon fibre torn and scattered across the gravel like confetti. The number on the side, ‘40,’ catches his eye.

That number.

Logan’s breath hitches, an unsettling sense of déjà vu creeping up his spine. He blinks, staring at the broken car in front of him, and suddenly he’s back there—in the dream. The one he’s had too many times, the one that’s never really left him since this whole season began. 

The image had been blurry in the dream, distorted like some twisted premonition. But now, with the real car crumpled and steaming before him, he sees it clearly. The twisted wreckage, the mangled frame of the RedBull, the exact same number he saw in his vision. 

Oh, no. Please, God, no.

It’s Liam. Liam’s car, Liam’s number.

The marshals work quickly, gathering the remnants of the crash and carting them off. To them, it’s just another cleanup, another racing incident, nothing out of the ordinary. But Logan’s pulse won’t stop hammering in his ears. The dread won’t let him go.

Lawson’s fate is certain, fate is sealed.

This place, this track, this corner will be the place that he dies.

 Not today, not tomorrow but someday.

ITALY

AUTODROME NAZIONALE MONZA

Opposite to the last time they were in Tifosi Territory, Logan wins and Charles finishes third.

As the American National Anthem plays, there are boos from the crowd in red. Sore losers, he thinks, hand placed over his heart. Perhaps he didn’t deserve this win - the Gods, the visions, and luck on his side seeing the entire race before it happened and thus acting on that knowledge, but he sure as hell still got it.

That has to mean something.

Post-race, there are questions.

But not directed towards him.

Directed towards Oscar.

“You’ve had an alright season so far, but there’s been a lot of talk about how Logan’s recent form has overshadowed yours. Some say you’re starting to lose the edge that won you two titles. How do you respond to those critics?”

Logan keeps his expression neutral, though inside he’s bristling. This again. The press can’t just let it - anything - be about racing. It’s always about Oscar. About how Logan’s success is supposedly coming at Oscar’s expense.

He watches as his lover tenses beside him, fingers flexing slightly before he tightens them into a fist on his knee. The way the Australian’s been handling the media lately has him worried—Oscar’s never let the pressure get to him before, but something’s changed. The constant comparisons, the insinuations that Oscar is past his prime while Logan is on the rise…

“I’m still fighting for the championship,” the McLaren driver says, his voice even but lacking its usual confidence. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t still in the game.”

The reporter doesn’t stop, though, pressing further. “But with Logan leading today, and the momentum shifting his way, do you think it’s getting harder for you to keep up?”

Logan’s heart sinks. He can see it—the way Oscar’s starting to believe the bullshit the media is feeding him.

Just say ‘no comment,’ he begs as his lover’s face flickers through a few different emotions.

Oscar always comments.

“I’ve had some struggles, but that’s racing. Sometimes things click, sometimes they don’t. I’m not washed up just because I had a tough run of form.”

Logan clenches his jaw. He wants to snap at the reporters, to shut this down, but that wouldn’t help. He knows how this game works—they’ll just use it to fuel the narrative. Charles shifts in his seat, glancing at Oscar with an unreadable expression, clearly sensing the tension. Logan forces himself to stay quiet, but it’s hard when he can see the toll this is taking on Oscar. His usual calm has been replaced by doubt, and Logan hates it.

Another reporter jumps in, and Logan can almost hear the bait in their voice. “Logan, with today’s win and your form this season, it looks like you’ve solidified yourself as the favourite. Is there any tension between you and Oscar now that you’re leading the championship?”

Logan takes a slow breath. “There’s no tension between us. Oscar and I both want to win, but we’ve always supported each other. We know what it’s like to be at the top, and we know how tough this sport is, we’re both professionals, we’re still the same childhood friends.”

He glances at his boyfriend, who’s staring blankly ahead, barely reacting. This isn’t how things are supposed to be. 

“And your contract with Mercedes has been extended,” the reporter reminds him. Right - yes - he’s locked into the sport for another two years - until the end of 2031. “Did you ever expect to have a longer contract than your childhood friend?”

“No,” he says honest, then re-evaluates the question. “It isn’t necessarily a longer contract - Oscar has been loyal to McLaren since the beginning. I’ve been in three teams while he’s only been in one… I think that’s an unfair comparison, even though I’m sure we’re both happy with our career positions.”

Logan’s finally where he wants to be—winning races, leading the championship—but the cost is starting to feel too high. He doesn’t want to climb to the top if it means watching Oscar fall apart in the process.

At dinner, no matter the promises Logan makes, Oscar doesn’t eat.

It’s as they’re exiting the younger’s carefully constructed facade begins the break, continuing a conversation Logan barely listened to during his meal.

“I mean,” Oscar chuckles - a pathetic wet sound before turning his head to stare at the flowerbed beside them - shaking his head minutely as if in disbelief. “We - We always argue, we don’t have sex anymore, I just-”

The Australian breaks himself off, and all Logan can do is watch as he drags his palms down his face caught between a laugh and a sob; looking anywhere but him.

When he finally does speak again it pierces through his heart. 

“Did I… do something?” with a small voice, Oscar finally meets his eyes, hands below his chin - pressed together in prayer like he’s searching for solace in the stars. 

The stars. The fucking ironic stars.

“No-” he reaches out a consoling hand and hates how Oscar steps away from it. 

“I-” he goes to explain himself, but anything regarding the truth would just sound insane. “You - You haven’t done anything Osc - it’s - it’s not you, it’s me.”

Fuck, that’s cliche. Fuck that is also very lame.

Oscar doesn’t look like he quite believes him.

“I’m just-” he claws at anything that could help his lover, that he knows he is slowly losing, understand. “I’m struggling.”

And that was the wrong thing to say.

“You're winning,” Oscar crosses his arms with a sarcastic huff. “The team, the press, everybody fucking loves you, Logan - oh what a brilliant turn around, robbing the championship from his childhood best friend - and I’m getting killed out here.”

“What the fuck?! What are you, jealous?” he can’t stop the words from leaving his mouth - so shocked he stumbles back as if hit physically. “You - You don’t even know what I’m going through! Why - Why the fuck are you making this all about yourself? What is the whole lack of nutrients begging-for-attention bullshit starting to fuck up your brain?”

“And you know what I’m going through?”

“Yes, because that was me the entirety of our first go at Formula One - constantly I was being compared to you and your success and your wins and then I got kicked out!”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “Of course, you’re bringing up this again.”

“Are you-?!” he stops his yell though bitter rage curls up in his chest - compressing his lungs and leaving him gasping for air. 

Taking a composed breath, he glares at his usually so calm, so collected, and now unyielding lover, with a quiet hiss; “We’re not doing this in public.”

Oscar looks like he wants to bite back - fight back, Logan sees his jaw clench making his cheekbones pronounced against gaunt cheeks. “Fine.”

And the Australian storms away, two paces ahead of him and Logan has to elongate his steps to catch up.

The walk back is uncomfortable. Already, guilt hits at his gut - a sensation oh so familiar these days, but next to it lies a decrepit disbelief; a swirling anger. 

Oscar has no idea what he’s going through. And yes, partially that is because Logan hasn’t told him, but how could he even begin to explain what is happening to him?

He can already imagine how the conversation goes:

‘Hey, I can see the future and originally it was small stuff like what words I should say, or giving a fucking teddy bear to Toto’s to get into good graces, and then I saw crashes a few times before they happened so I could avoid them, but now I see children dying, people screaming, wars, bloodshed and the literal end of the world as it burns up until nothing is left.’

Yeah, that’d get him sent straight to the stewards for a mental evaluation.

Or to a psych ward.

Or a rehab centre if he’s lucky.

And he can’t afford that. Not really, not now. 

He has a championship to win.

They scream at each other, a flurry of tears, pain and rage until each of their throats goes raw.

They sleep in separate hotel rooms.

That night he has a vision of how to win Oscar back, the exact facial expressions he needs to mimic, the exact words he needs to say.

He hates it when it works, and the next night before they leave, Oscar is curled up in bed beside him - kissing the nape of his neck, and cradling him until Logan feigns sleep.

SINGAPORE

SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX

They crash on the final lap, fighting for P1.

It’s unlike Shanghai. Oscar doesn’t offer words of comfort. Logan doesn’t either.

They don’t have sex. They don’t even sleep in the same bed, nor the same hotel.

Logan wonders if this is almost the breaking point for them.

The braking point he had missed, overshooting the corner too far, that had led them to this exact moment.

He dreams of a tsunami.

It’s happening today, in a mere few hours, he just knows it.

He doesn’t call Yuki, doesn’t try to race over to Japan.

It’s cruel. Giving him all the knowledge with such little time to stop it.

On the news, they have a tally of the fatalities.

2,964.

He can think of that many reasons to put himself out of this never-ending circle and cycle of misery. He clutches the wooden carving in his hand and doesn't know whether he begins to laugh or cry.

Guns are legal in America. The flight there is booked in three days.

Maybe whilst in Austin he can run down to Walmart, buy one, and then shoot himself square in the head.

Things would be easier that way.

The ‘permanent sleep’ seems pretty endearing to him now.

But Logan’s always been one to want what he can’t have.

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CIRCUIT OF THE AMERICAS - AUSTIN

Texas, Good ole’ Austin Texas.

It’s been nine months since he’s been here but it feels like nine years. God, if he had known how naive he had been back then - finding that green teddy bear tucked away into a corner, driving George’s Mercedes for one lap.

He wishes he binned it into the wall - lived up to his good ole’ Sargeant ways.

He wishes he never fucking found that stupid teddy bear.

Before the race, Toto is on the phone - complaining about Jack’s lack of discipline and laziness - the reason why the twelve-year-old isn’t here, watching cars go around in a circle instead of trying to battle a cancer only Logan knows he has.

How fucking ironic.

There is a buzz around COTA; both Texan and American flag waves. This race is probably his best shot at winning a ‘home grand prix’ even with the inconsistency of his form. 

He’s second in the championship now. 

Oscar is seven points behind him.

Today is also his best shot at surpassing Charles; if he wins this, or even if he gets second and Charles scores nothing above P5, he would be leading the Championship. 

He would be the true winner, even if just for today.

So, he heightens his focus in his pre-race warm-up, gets his reaction time faster as he presses each lit-up button, makes sure to squat deeper to better prepare his legs for this hellish stint. 

When they line up post-formation lap, Charles beside him, Logan gives an anticipatory rev of his engine, feels it thrum to life underneath him. His tyres are getting cold - Lando pulls into his position behind him but after the front two rows - no one else is in position.

Sucking in a deep breath he looks around - at the crowd. Banners have his number, his name on them. Words of support he can’t make out from his cockpit, people like him - people want him to win.

Flicking his eyes away from the crowd, he chances a look up to one of the live-replay screens. The fifth row is only rolling in now - Charles did a terrible job of bunching the pack up.

The screen changes, now to the Mercedes garage and Logan swallows the lump in his throat when he sees his boss’ face. He didn’t have time to say hello before the race - taking those precious extra minutes for warming up, listening to some calming music, instead, so really he has no clue who is in the garage - someone mentioned a pop star that is famous these days. Logan doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care.

And then the camera pans across the garage zooming onto a face he could never forget.

Chills run up his spine at the appearance. 

Because under a Mercedes hat, curls short and regrowing after everything that happened, is no one other than Kimi Antonelli.

Fuck. He wasn’t prepared for this.

It’s the twenty-three-year-old’s first public appearance since the accident, the one that claimed his right leg to be replaced with metal, stole his racing career before it even really started, and almost claimed his life.

How did Logan not know about this? How come no one informed him?

A thousand emotions rise up in him - a flash of red in his peripheral, but he can’t look away from the screen - the wheelchair, the distant, heartbroken smile on the youngster’s face. 

Guilt. Guilt that twists his stomach in knots, guilt that makes his palms sweat and his legs shake. It should been Kimi in the car right now, not him. It should’ve been Kimi fighting for the podiums, for the wins, for the Championship the media promised. 

Logan's success feels tainted, every victory a painful reminder of someone else’s loss.

But isn’t that how he got here? 

A substitution, a second-choice to the second-choice.

Kimi crashed out. Vesti got ill. And now Logan is about to lead the championship.

Oscar’s cruel words all that time ago come back to haunt him.

“Everyone has to get their seat somehow, it’s the nature of the game.”

Bile crawls up his throat. Now he finally understands what those very words mean.

All of this shit, everything that got him here to this front row start in front of his fans, the premonitions, the victories, the deaths, the accidents, the screams.

It’s all just the nature of the game.

Orange flashes in his periphery. What the-

Then teal, yellow, black, red, blue.

Fuck, Logan jolts forward - foot pressed on the accelerator. He - He missed it. Missed the five red lights, missed the start of the race, missed the chance to overtake Charles into Turn One, missed the chance to overtake Charles in the championship.

The world around him is a blur, the other cars already tearing down the straight. The engine roars beneath him, but it doesn’t matter. The gap has already opened, and he’s been left behind, crawling through the gears like a ghost in a race that’s already moved on without him.

Corner after corner, it doesn’t get any better. His body feels disconnected from the car, and every braking point is a second too late, every apex missed. Charles is long gone, the chance to leapfrog him in the standings slipping through Logan’s fingers like sand. The radio crackles with updates from Jakob, urging him to push, to recover, but their voices sound like they’re coming from underwater.

Logan knows he won’t recover from this.

He tries to focus, but his mind keeps dragging him back to the image on the screen.  The wheelchair. The look on Kimi’s face as the crowds cheered for him, as if nothing had happened. The hollow smile. Logan’s chest tightens, the guilt wrapping itself around him like chains, pulling him deeper into the quicksand of his own mind.

It’s Kimi. It’s always Kimi.

The laps fly by, and Logan’s barely holding onto his position, tumbling down the order. The frustration is eating him alive. He knows he’s faster than this. He knows he can do better. But something inside him—something that broke the moment he saw Kimi in Texas—won’t let him.

By the time the chequered flag waves, Logan’s position is a joke. Midfield, at best. He rolls the car back into the garage, the weight of failure settling into his bones. His team huddles around him, but he’s already tuned out, eyes blank as he yanks the helmet from his head. Sweat drips down his face, but it’s the bitter taste of regret in his mouth that makes him want to throw up.

Pedro’s the first to approach him, waiting until the mechanics give them space. His voice is low, and cautious, as if he already knows what’s going on in Logan’s head.

"It was Kimi, right?" Pedro asks quietly, not making a show of it, just being there.

Logan doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything, just gives a jerky nod, barely perceptible. He can't explain it, not even to Pedro. How could he put into words the gnawing guilt that’s been tearing him apart since the moment he saw Kimi in his chair? The accident that gave him everything while taking everything from someone else.

Pedro doesn't press him for more. He doesn’t need to.

By the time the post-race media obligations roll around, Logan’s already planning his escape. He can’t sit through the interviews, can’t smile for the cameras while they ask him why his start was so shit, why he couldn’t pull it together. He just can’t.

So, he doesn’t.

He leaves the paddock without a word, pulling out his phone, and booking the first flight home. His mind’s already half out the door when he throws his bag over his shoulder, walking with purpose to the car waiting outside. Pedro’s the only one who sees him go, but Logan doesn’t even give him a chance to call out.

By the time anyone realises he’s gone, he’s already sitting on the plane, staring out the window at the runway below, the roar of the engines beneath him feeling oddly familiar, but hollow.

As the plane takes off, he sinks deeper into his seat, eyes squeezed shut.

Maybe getting away will help him forget—for a moment—about the ghost of a very much alive Kimi Antonelli.

Oscar arrived this morning.

Logan didn’t even bother to greet him. He couldn’t. Every word he considered turned to ash in his throat, every attempt to speak swallowed by the constant, gnawing threat of another vision. He had tried once—just once—to reach out, to explain, but the moment his lips parted, the world had twisted, his mind yanked into that inescapable nightmare. Paralysed. Choking on his own helplessness.

It exhausts him.

Everything does. 

Logan was supposed to be at Mercedes today. Meetings, briefings, whatever they had lined up for him—he doesn’t care anymore. Instead, he ignores the world, ignores the buzzing of his phone, ignores everything except the bottle of whiskey in front of him. It’s the only thing that offers him any relief, any escape from the spinning chaos in his mind. 

He wants to forget everything. Texas, Kimi, the guilt that festers like an open wound, the weight of seeing him there—young, broken, a reminder of everything Logan stole just by sitting in that car. The burden of knowing too much. The visions of what’s to come—more death, more suffering, more pain. 

He just wants to sleep. 

He’s just so fucking tired.

He clutches his head, fingers digging into his scalp as the living room around him becomes a reflection of his fractured mind. It’s a mess, utterly trashed by his own rage from an hour ago - when he had the energy to scream and break things - break through the helplessness. Just to feel something other than this sick, spiralling panic. 

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, the words barely escaping through clenched teeth. He looks around at the chaos he’s created, the disarray swirling like the storm in his mind. “I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

He wants Oscar. He doesn’t want Oscar. He doesn’t want Oscar to see him like this, but if he spends another second alone he might just take the elevator to the top floor.

You’re not alone, he tries to delude himself, his inner dialogue sounding suspiciously like his mother’s voice. 

Fuck. 

His Mom.  

His Mom dies in two years.

He pours another shot glass and downs it. It burns, just like the fires will do in Australia, destroying anything in their path. 

Daniel’s ranch. Fuck, how is he going to tell Daniel about his stupid ranch? He’s never even been to the ranch so it looks weird if he suddenly shows up giving a shit. 

Maybe he can find Daniel on a day he’s doing press and pull him aside. Maybe he should just throw himself off the fucking rooftop to avoid the inevitably awkward conversation.

He doesn’t need a premonition to see how that’ll play out. Free-falling - freedom - then boom - body splat on the concrete. He wishes it were night-time instead of two-thirty on a Tuesday. If he kills himself now, it’ll be just his luck that the school kids scurrying up the shortcut will probably be the ones that’ll find him. God he doesn’t want to traumatise more people than he has to.

Besides, who the fuck gets piss drunk at two-thirty on a Tuesday? Him, apparently. Well not apparently, because it’s reality if reality is even a real thing. 

He doesn’t know anymore.

He doesn’t know anything anymore.

Except how the world crumbles from humanity’s constant greed, how his friends, mother, himself and millions of random people all across the world die.

Fucking fantastic.

Oscar’s gonna’ be so mad at him.

For the remainder of his drunken stupor, he sways around through his tears (yeah, he’s crying now, like that helps his vision) and tries to redecorate the room to a state that doesn’t scream ‘I’m drunk and had a full mental breakdown.’ 

Logan hears the door click close before he’s even halfway through.

Fuck.

“Osc-” he starts, stumbling out of the ruins of their living room like he can somehow shield his boyfriend from this - hide it all away - sweep the shattered glass and broken memorabilia under the now-stained rug.

But he can’t. Of course, he can’t. Not even because of a mental block, or a change of heart - he literally fails to even get to the hallway in his drunkenness because the white walls merge into the white ceiling and into the grey floor like a Van Gogh painting.

But he sees orange. Oscar’s orange. A bright amber in the murky darkness of his vision.

And when his vertigo ends, and his vision returns; he can see the mixture of disgust, disappointment and displeasure evident on his beautiful features.

Fuck. He’s done for. He’s really, really fucked it this time.

He expects a screaming match, like they had in Monza. He expects anger, and rage and frustration so explosive; a scolding so scalding it burns into emptiness just like Daniel’s farm. He expects tears mirroring his own reflection - streaming rivers down his own pale, grey, hollowed cheeks. Maybe even a fight - a flurry of movement, a slap to the face handing him the reality that he is single-handedly destroying everything - their home, their careers, their love, the integral innate idea of them.

He would deserve it; if Oscar got violent with him. Maybe he could submit to it even - let his lover express his hatred towards him in such a physical manner - be of service to him.

But Oscar doesn’t raise a hand. He doesn’t even raise his voice.

He just says, in such a deadpan, even-tone, with such bitter vitriol in his eyes; “What the fuck is wrong with you, Logan?”

It’s a question. Even though he retreats a step or two backwards - mind whiplashed from the flurry of noise to a complete slate of blankness, he can register that he’s supposed to respond. 

But words fail him. His brain is broken, oh so broken , and as he stutters the staggered formations of an answer - an excuse - he is failing them. 

There’s the metaphorical lump in his throat, or maybe bile from drinking on a stomach running empty; either way it results in the same thing. He’s frozen - a deer in headlights - unable to speak, unable to save them.

“Logan,” Oscar repeats and this time he can hear the crack in his voice; can hear the undeniable hurt that looms within him but still has that same blank expression on his face. “What is wrong with you?”

‘I saw you die yesterday.’ He wants to say.

 ‘It’s slow and painful and unfair. I’m not with you at the end, but your sisters are. Well, except Hattie - she dies in a few years from now - a freak accident - a plane crash when travelling to Spain because she wanted to see you win. I think as you laid down in that private hospital bed for the last time you wanted it, because you wanted to see her, your parents, and me again.’

“I’m sorry,” his voice cracks, barely audible, but it’s all he has left. His throat is raw, and the words feel like they’re clawing out of him. But Oscar doesn’t flinch. Instead, his chest rises and falls with a frustrated sigh, his face stony and closed-off, far away from the warmth Logan used to know.

Logan can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see the empty distance in Oscar’s gaze, so he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for it—the impact, the crash, the fight. Anything but this unbearable silence between them. The waiting hurts more than he ever imagined.

“I’m done,” Oscar’s voice is so calm, so steady, it feels like a slap in the face.

“No,” Logan breathes, the word tumbling out of his mouth before he even realises. His body lurches forward as if his sheer will alone could stop this from happening. “No, Osc, please—”

Oscar takes a step back, away from him. Away from Logan’s desperate hands, from the pleading grip that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

“No, Logan,” Oscar repeats, his voice firmer this time. “It’s over.”

Logan’s heart shatters, his knees buckling beneath him. His vision swims with hot tears, spilling down his cheeks in silent agony. 

“Please,” he begs, voice thick with desperation. “Please, babe, baby —please don’t leave me—”

But the light in Oscar’s eyes—those familiar amber eyes—extinguishes. The warmth that was once there, the love, the fire, snuffs out like a dying candle. Logan watches it vanish, helpless, as the man he loves retreats into the shadows the orange, Oscar’s orange, gone.

“Why are you looking at me like I’m fucking crazy?” Logan chokes out - speaking to no one, gripping his chest as if it will stop the ache spreading through his whole body. His words sound slurred, broken.

He is broken.

Sobs tearing him apart, his hands reach out, but there’s nothing to grasp onto. Nothing but empty space where Oscar used to be.

The click of the door sounds final.

And then there’s nothing. No words, no footsteps, no breathing—just the cold, empty echo of the silence left behind.

GERMANY

NÜRBURGRING

“What will it be this time?” a large hand claps his shoulder, a thick accent meets his ears. “I don’t know if this week will bring home another trophy or a DNF.”

Logan blinks up at Toto. The taller beast of a man has a smile on his face, jovial - happy to be racing in his home country and Mercedes’ home.

You also don’t know your son has cancer.

He wants to say it, but he doesn’t.

Nothing matters. He can’t change shit.

This fifty-fifty coin flip ends with champagne and a top step on the podium.

He wins.

He feels nothing at all.

When Daniel interviews him, asks him the exact question of his emotions, Logan doesn’t even force a smile.

Instead, he sees fire. Fires, angry amber churning up the earth as it spreads faster than his fastest lap here today.

With Daniel’s little old farm right in the middle of it.

Hilarious.

He does laugh then - at the sardonic nature of it all. 

‘How are you feeling?’

“Great,” he tacks on after a wheeze - people must think he’s crazy; he feels like he is. “I’m great, Daniel, picture perfect.”

BRAZIL

AUTÓDROMO JOSÉ CARLOS PACE, INTERLAGOS

It’s here in Brazil where he recalls the fact that drinking helps.

He’s positively buzzed on Thursday and hopes his words don’t come out slurred, prays the cameras won’t pick up on his stumbles.

Friday morning he’s itching for a drink. Like ants under his skin, it burns - his throat yearns for the heat, the pleasure, the pain.

But he can’t. He’s driving. Not only driving a car, but driving said car over two-hundred miles per hour.

In his drivers’ room, fifteen minutes before free practice starts he unzips the small pocket of his bag where the flask lies.

Fuck it.

It’s a practice run after all.

No visions haunt him. No wailing children, no war-torn countries. 

Instead, his eyesight is blurry as he whips around each turn, gravity slamming his twisting stomach into the side of the car as his body feels loose - only able to press on the accelerator harder.

“Congrats,” his engineer’s voice penetrates his ear. “P2 for this first session.”

He laughs, and brings the car home, hiding his tears behind his visor - refusing to take off his helmet until he’s only surrounded by the four walls of his driver’s room.

Whilst there, he downs the rest of the bottle.

The phone’s dial ends abruptly as there’s muffling from the other side of the line, the other side of the world.

“Logan?” Yuki’s voice cuts through, clear as day. “What time is it for you?”

Blinking away the grogginess of his drunken haze, he pulls his phone away from his ear to better answer his friend’s question.

“Two-twenty-three,” he sips the Jack Daniel’s straight from the bottle. It burns as it goes down. He’s not sure why he chooses it really - he was never a whiskey person before all this. Perhaps it's the high alcohol percentage, the pain, the way it barely leaves him with a hangover, or maybe the fact McLaren is sponsored by the Tennessee-based brand and it has some stupid connection to Oscar that way.

“Why are you calling?” 

Logan laughs at the unintentional bluntness of the other’s words.

“I missed you,” and yeah, he’s fucked, but it’s perhaps one of the most honest things he’s said in a while now. 

“Aw,” comes Yuki’s croon. Then there is a few rapid words of Japanese and the high-pitched sound of a younger boy’s complaint over the phoneline.

“Sorry,” Yuki returns, “Jay-Jay is refusing to eat the lovely meal his beautiful mother made for him.”

Logan chuckles again - obviously, the last part of that sentence wasn’t directed towards himself, but the simple domesticity of it all makes his heart yearn.

“That’s a nickname. Short for Jean-Jaques, right?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Yes.”

Logan traces the ridge of the bottle with his thumb. “Pierre’s middle name.”

Another stretching silence. “Yes, it was.”

Was. The past tense makes his heart stutter.

His next words can only be explained by liquid courage. “Did you love him?”

Yuki’s words are immediate. “I did.”

Suddenly a French voice he slowly recognises comes over the phone, but it’s not that of the man they are discussing; instead it is Yuki’s wife. He can’t quite remember her name - he blames it on his intoxicated state. 

The glass is smooth under his fingertip. “Does she know?”

“Of course,” the man speaks with such unabashed certainty, albeit it sounds morose - kindred by nostalgia. Logan catches a whiff of sakura leaves, tastes the yuzu glaze on his tongue. Pierre still lives on in some ways, Mon Cherry being only a footnote in his legacy.

“She loved him too.”

She loved him too.

It’s such a simple sentence. Filled with all the complexities of love.

“What’s wrong, Logan?”

“Huh?” he sniffles, only then realises he’s crying. “I’m-”

-Okay.

‘I’m okay.’ A phrase he’s always responded with. A lie that cuts so deep he doesn’t know where it began.

“Thank you,” he tries again, closing his eyes so he can’t feel his tears fall, can’t see how the hotel balcony spins. “Thank you for talking to me, Yuki. Thank you for picking up the phone.”

“I’ll call you again after the race,” and there’s a thinly veiled promise under the concise words. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop the tsunami this time,” he babbles on.

To anyone else, it would seem like the drunken ramblings of a crazy person.

But Yuki doesn’t question it, even if this time the uncertainty returns to his tone. “That’s okay, Logan. Go get some sleep.”

And he tries to, he really does. He maybe squeezes an hour in before the screams, explosions and sobs wrack his ears - before the sunrise streams through the still-open window-doors to the balcony.

Mind cloudy, he forces himself up.

It’s only when he’s waiting for the five red lights, a miserable grid start of P6, when his mind goes frighteningly clear - an idea, a realisation.

He could just end it all. End the premonitions, end his suffering - a permanent solution less illegal than drunk driving, more respectable than letting his brain consume him.

It would be… an accident.

Something tragic.

Something quick.

Something final.

It takes him twenty-six laps to build up the courage. The fact he stops right before an Alpine crashes out, losing valuable time as everyone else gets a cheap pitstop helps him make his decision - all the way down in fifteenth.

Charles is the car ahead of him, similarly getting fucked over by poor strategy calls.

Good. He won’t have to see it.

The straight before the harsh ninety-degree turn makes the most sense. A lock-up, car doesn’t turn, a horrible, terrible accident.

Oscar… where is Oscar? He’s been so caught up in his own mind he doesn’t know any cars’ positioning on the track that isn’t his or the ones directly in his eyesight.

It doesn’t matter. 

Oscar will see it either way - whether passing by on track or on the projection screens above. 

A sick part of him wants Oscar to see it. Wants him to feel it. The panic that crawls up the throat, the sinking heart into thine stomach.

Fear. Guilt. Pain.

All emotions that shackle him down - afraid for what visions the night will bring, guilt over each action or inaction to save the entirety of humanity, pain - what’s written on children’s faces before the wave comes crashing down, before the nuke hits.

I’m sorry, he passes by the tracks’ final turn, heading down the straight, foot firmly pressed on the accelerator pedal.. 

But who is he apologising to? Himself? His lover? His parents? The world?

He doesn’t have time to figure it out before the world goes black.

He survives. Of course, he does. 

‘No major injuries’ the doctors say and he curses the halo and all the fucking safety measures Formula One has made in the past decades.

At least, out of all of this, he had hoped he had gotten Oscar’s attention.

But as he waits in his hospital bed, his lover never shows.

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE LAS VEGAS STRIP CIRCUIT

He walks through Walmart and determinedly does not stop at the gun aisle instead taking his shitty Caesar salad and Jack Daniels straight to self-checkout.

Is this… a healthy mental state? He didn’t even bat his eye in their direction, even though the hollowness in his chest begs him to.

Ultimately, he can admit this whole situation has become slightly depressing. He’s at the top of his career, he could take the championship like he knows he’s destined to, but Oscar’s gone, his boss’ son has cancer, every friendship he has tried to build has come crumbling down and he hasn’t even told him Mon that he’s gay yet. On top of all of that, he’s a fucking alcoholic.

It’s not entirely his fault, how could he have known to win he’d have to trade his bliss, his innocence? Drinking is the only thing that helps, apart from drugs after a bad crash that let him sleep without nightmares. He’s an alcoholic because there are so many dark things in the world he can see and this isn’t about racing any more it's about the fucking humanity of the world.

Maybe it was never about racing, but then why would he wish this for himself? Envy? Greed? Nothing seems equal in what he asked for and what he’s got.

He’d do anything to not be on that Abu Dhabi balcony - he’d do anything to retract his wish he made to the night sky stars. They spin above him as he drinks - half a bottle down now without any mixer but water.

It’s disgusting, it’s horrible.

He’s a mixture of them both, a product of his dreams that he forced to be a reality.

Carlos Sainz announces his retirement under the Strip Lights.

He glances towards Oscar in their national anthem lineup - now not so many teams, not so many faces between them - expecting to see some type of smugness or relief. But the Australian’s expression is stagnant, as it always has been. Perhaps overtaking Logan, being first, in the championship has made his head quieter. 

He looks over to Charles, his other rival and can’t help but feel that pinprick of sadness. Not because unlike several others he has seen the Monagasque’s future, but instead because he knows his past. His father's death, his godfather's death, the promises to them both about his legacy with Ferrari, the fact that he’s been unable not to leave a Championship-failing team for almost a decade but nit due to contract issues but rather the weight of his own promises to those deceased before him. Leclerc is a sociopath - Logan can’t not believe it - but still, he is just a man, a boy, with the hopes of a dream and a nation.

Just like himself.

Whilst walking to the Mercedes garage before FP1, in between the cold concrete walls he sees one of his first-ever premonitions come to life. His teammate, George, and his old boss, Alex, arguing. There is a flurry of hands that never come close to one another - not like how he and Oscar had argued, but the expressions painted on each of their expressions is poor.

He still doesn’t know everything that happened between them. Perhaps he will never truly understand.

But as the brunette Brit is angry in debrief on Friday night, Logan can’t help but feel bad for him. 

George has never been first-seat material.  He was second to Lewis, then to Kimi despite false promises, and now the team prioritises him - for upgrades for strategy all hunting down that elusive championship while Geroge withers away in fifth. 

It’s saddening in a sense. George has been in this sport for so much longer than he, or Kimi had been. 

And yet, Logan knows, George will never be a World Champion.

Not even close.

On Sunday, he doesn’t know whether he should bin it into the wall or actually try this time. 

He decides on the latter, making sure he’s not distracted be screens or emotions - looking only at the five red lights as they countdown to take off. 

Logan’s grip tightens around the steering wheel, knuckles going white as the neon lights of the Las Vegas strip blur past. His heart thuds in his chest, a heavy beat that matches the pounding in his head. It’s just another race , he tells himself, but it doesn’t feel like one. Not with Oscar in front of him. Not with everything that’s happened in the past month.

Focus. 

He forces his eyes back on the track, but they keep drifting, keep pulling toward the thought of him —Oscar. They haven’t spoken since Texas. Since that night when everything crumbled, when Oscar had walked out, leaving Logan to drown in his own misery. And now, here they are, on the same track, in the same race, but worlds, one position, apart.

The race is fast; chaotic. A blur of lights, speed, and mistakes. He’s not at his best—he knows that. He messes up Turn Eught, and his pit stop is slower than it should be. Still, he pushes on, desperate to salvage something, anything. But his mind isn’t on the race, not fully. It’s on the Australian driver up ahead, on the conversations they never had, on the apologies that never made it past his lips.

By the time the race ends, Logan finishes on the last step of the podium - a respectable but unremarkable result to the fans that were hoping he’d do better. He pulls into the pits, hands trembling as the adrenaline starts to fade, but the real anxiety kicks in. He’s going to see Oscar, his Oscar that finished ahead of him in P2 - the papaya teammate's first place after Logan surely knows was an error of McLaren strategy calls and the elder Brit refusing to switch positions.

He sits on his chair, sucking down water - trying to hydrate himself as the race’s highlights replay in the background.

He peers at Oscar.

They haven’t been this close, not since everything went to hell.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. There’s no immediate wave of resentment coming off Oscar. In fact, there’s a surprising stillness to him, something calmer than the turmoil Logan had expected.

“Hey,” Logan says, his voice low, tentative, as if testing the waters.

Oscar looks up, his eyes meeting Logan’s for the first time in what feels like forever. There’s no anger, no fury. Just… exhaustion. Logan opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words die in his throat. 

Lando claps a hand on Oscar’s back, clearly still buzzing from his win. “Hell of a race, huh?”

“Yeah, mate,” Oscar nods, but his gaze flickers back to Logan, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

Logan watches the interaction, his heart twisting. This is it, he thinks. This is my chance.

As Lando bounces out of the room, preparing for his moment on the podium, Logan steps closer to Oscar, in the hallway where no cameras can see them, his hands shaking just slightly. 

“Can we… talk? After this, I mean,” Logan stammers, not knowing how else to approach it. “Please. Just for a few minutes.”

Oscar’s eyes search Logan’s face, and for a moment, it feels like he’s going to say no. Like he’s going to shut him down right here, right now, in front of the world.

But then, with a quiet sigh, Oscar nods. “Alright. After.”

Relief washes over Logan, but it’s tinged with uncertainty. He doesn’t know what this talk will lead to. He doesn’t know if there’s even a chance for reconciliation, or if Oscar’s here just to close the door for good. But for now, he’ll take it.

The two walk to the podium, where the confetti falls and the crowd roars, but Logan barely hears any of it. All he can focus on is the man standing beside him—the one he let slip away.

“What do you want?” it’s hours after the celebrations. Debrief took long for both of them - he had asked Sarah to update Oscar’s movements in a non-stalkerish way. Which got him here - outside the Ferrari garage - both walking in opposite directions to their own parked cars, and yet ‘fateful’ meeting in the middle.

He tries not to be intimidated by Oscar’s flat question, - expressionless face. It's a defence mechanism - after so many years Logan knows that, and yet he’s still stumbling over his words as he breaches his next question.

“You?” he jokes, and the Australian doesn’t even give him the pity of a smile.

“Logan-”

“No, Osc,” he puffs out his chest- - refusing to back down. “I fucked up. I know that. I know I haven’t been the same-” (he doesn’t mention the visions) “- success got to my head or whatever the fuck. I treated you wrong, I’m - I’m trying to get a handle on it.”

“You’re sober?” the younger asks and Logan reigns in his offence - the suggestion that he would drive under the influence - despite its truth in Brazil.

“Of course, I am, babe,” the pet name slips out.

Yet, Oscar, so usually unaffected, melts; he can see it. 

They know each other too well. Too many years spent together, beginning at just nine years old. Two decades later here they are - under the sphere, waiting for both their names to be called by announcers for the podium. Both of them, side by side, in a moment that should’ve been euphoric, but feels like a knife twisting in Logan’s gut instead.

His ex, God it feels strange calling him that,  looks away for a moment, jaw tight. “Logan, you can’t just—”

“Oscar,” Logan cuts in, taking a step closer, his voice rising in desperation. “I know I can’t just say sorry and make it all better. But I’m trying, okay? I’m really fucking trying. I’m getting help-” (a lie-) “I know I’ve been a mess, I know I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but I—” He swallows hard, his voice faltering. “I can’t do this without you.”

Oscar’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t walk away, even though Logan can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. “It’s not that simple, Logan. You keep saying you’re going to change, but then—”

“I am changing,” he interrupts again, his voice cracking. “I know it’s not enough yet. But I’m working on it.”

There’s a long, heavy silence between them. Logan’s heart is pounding in his chest, his hands trembling as he waits for Oscar to respond. Finally, his 'ex' lets out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Oscar says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t keep getting hurt.”

Logan’s chest tightens, and for a moment, he feels like he’s going to break down right there. But he forces himself to stay calm, to keep pushing.

“You won’t,” he promises, his voice desperate. “I swear, Osc. I’m getting better. I can be better. Just... don’t give up on me yet.”

The other's eyes meet his, and for a split second, Logan sees the vulnerability beneath the anger. The hurt, the exhaustion, the love that’s still there, buried under everything that’s happened between them.

“I don’t know,” he eventually mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t know if that’s enough.”

“It has to be,” Logan pleads, his voice barely holding together. “Because I love you. I can’t... I can’t do this without you.”

Oscar stares at him for what feels like an eternity before finally nodding, just a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“We’ll talk,” he says quietly. “But I’m not making any promises.”

“I’ll see you by your car?” it’s an olive branch; more than that -  it's a desperate wish.

And Oscar just nods.

They can’t truly be without each other - no matter the lies they use to convince, delude themselves.

Promises. What a strange thing. 

They once promised to be together through the good and the bad, in sickness and in health—wedding vows they never officially spoke but had lived by for years. Now, those vows felt empty, reduced to nothing. 

But an hour after that fraught conversation, after final team debriefs, Oscar meets Logan by his car, the cold night air swirling between them like a quiet storm. Neither of them says much, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them both. Logan is the one who finally breaks the silence.

“We’re miserable without each other,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. It’s not an accusation—it’s a fact, raw and simple. His eyes search Oscar’s, desperate for the younger man to acknowledge the truth in it.

Oscar doesn’t reply, but something shifts in his posture. His jaw clenches, his fists tight at his sides, but he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he follows Logan back to the hotel.

Once inside the room, the door barely closes before Logan is on him. It’s not gentle, it’s not tender—this is months of pent-up anger, frustration, and desire crashing down between them. Logan’s hands roam Oscar’s body like he’s worshipping something sacred, something lost. But it’s not love, not right now. It’s something darker, messier. Hate sex, love sex—Logan doesn’t know, and he’s too far gone to care. 

All he knows is that he needs this. Needs Oscar, needs to feel something other than the numbness that’s been plaguing him since the breakup.

Oscar’s hands are rough, his touch unforgiving as he shoves Logan onto the bed. There’s no pretence, no softness. It’s not about making it right—it’s about punishing Logan for all the ways he’s failed, for being the worst boyfriend, the worst friend, maybe even the worst person Oscar’s ever known. And Logan takes it, every thrust, every harsh breath, every moment where the pain mixes with pleasure. He deserves it. 

It’s not enough lube, and Logan feels the burn, but he doesn’t protest. He bites down on his lip, the sharp sting grounding him in the reality of what’s happening. He knows Oscar is angry—furious, really—and this is how they’re both resolving it. A tangible, physical manifestation of all the things they can’t say. 

They push and pull, Oscar’s frustration bleeding into every movement. And Logan—he needs it. He needs to be punished, to feel the consequences of his failures. He deserves this. Deserves the discomfort, the pain. It’s a reminder of how much he’s ruined, how much he’s destroyed between them.

But eventually, the frenzy dies down. The desperation fades, leaving behind a strange kind of calm. Oscar collapses beside him, breathless, and Logan wraps his arms around him without thinking. The air in the room is heavy, thick with the aftermath of their intensity, but neither of them speaks. There’s no need for words. 

They spoon each other to sleep, Logan clinging to Oscar like a lifeline. It feels like, for a few hours, they’ve fallen back into the rhythm of what they once were—lovers. The silence between them is no longer a chasm, but a space where they can just exist, together.

Oscar needed to take out his frustrations, and Logan needed to resolve his guilt in the only way he knew how. And somehow, it brought them back here. Back in bed, bodies tangled together, as lovers once more.

QATAR

LUSAIL INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT

Qatar. 

Perhaps his worst enemy if miles of tarmac and turns could be considered a rival opponent to his championship. He’s second place, despite the woes; Ferrari has done a considerably shocking job of promoting their driver. In fact, Carlos, a mere sixth in the championship, is the man-in-red who has won the last two races. Oscar, despite the mess of Vegas is still behind him, even though they’ve made up - fucked the anger, the pain out of each other. Logan’s just glad Oscar let him stay the night in the hotel, then in their London apartment that Oscar bought fir the both of them - back when the McLaren drive made far more money, back when they were still together.

Together. Logan supposes they are, even if the conversation hasn’t truly happened. Nicole called him yesterday. Mrs. Piastri has never scared him before - he would say he’s as close to her as he is his own mother, but he truly felt a ‘mothers’ protectiveness’ in that wretched phone call.

He’d promised to do better.

Nicole believes him.

He’s not sure if her only son does.

But now they’re here at Lusail Circuit.

He hasn’t been here since 2023. 

For the past two years, in his time with Haas, they had spent the time fixing the track after a missile had successfully struck it, unlike the attempt on Jeddah all that time ago. Seven people died. One was just a kid - an F1 fan. Lewis Hamilton gave the family his apologies, one million dollars of retribution and then fucked off on his private yacht.

Perhaps it’s a selfish, final gift to himself when he crosses the line in first place. A retribution, a ‘fuck you’ to the track that almost killed him al those years ago.

But as he stands on the top step - rose water clutched in his hand compared to alcohol he thinks.

This was his last hurrah. It has to be.

If he replicates this race’s results in two weeks time at Yas Marina he will be a World Champion. That first dream, that first premonition will become true. 

Toto beams when he returns to the garage. Jakob claps him on the back. Logan buys them all a first round of drinks - his bonus is gigantic enough from this race alone anyway - money has disappeared from his list of problems and been replaced with a million other things.

Pedro Clerot messages him a few simple words that make him anxious.

<hey bro, I know u have been drinking - not just 2nite at race celebration. U can always talk to me, my friend. I will not judge. Plus, u were right, chloe is not scary and also a good listener - she said somethfb abt her madre in sober livi g - maybe she could help too. I love you bro, i am here if u want 2 talk>

Sent: 7/11/2029 9:05p.m.

He downs the rest of his beer. Nothing sobers you up more than a fucking intervention, he supposes. 

He excuses himself early, before anyone can ask about his change in demeanour, before anyone is Haas uniform can make their way over to the garages. 

He coops up in his hotel room, alone, as the celebrations outside truly begin and then begin to end.

End.

He needs to end this,

If this all really is a multiverse then he has the power to shape the future’s direction. Not all premonitions come true - he stopped the first tsunami in Japan, even if he couldn’t replicate that success for the second devastation. 

He could make his next actions positive - rally for change in circuit safety, try to be diplomatic within wars that will start tomorrow, try to actually help people instead of himself and his own ambitions. 

He can’t save himself from the cruel claws of time, of death. He can’t save Oscar, he can’t save his mother.

But he sure as hell can try to save everyone else.

“George,” he stops the other in the hallway; up bright and early the next morning in the Mercedes paddock - just knowing the elder will be here. “I want to help you be GDPA president.”

“I’m sorry?” the Brit is on the defence. It’s fair enough - George was supposed to be fighting for the championship, not him. Logan has ruined both their best chances of becoming part of the history books. The knowledge makes guilt stab at his gut, but it’s better than the guilt of letting thousands suffer and die. Perhaps, one day, his teammate will understand.

“I want to be part of the change,” he continues, resolute. “For track safety-”

Liam Lawson’s crumpled car flashes in his brain.

The future is not certain, not a death sentence.

The actions that he completes now can shape it, shape the malleable strings of time, of reality. “Please.”

George’s face doesn’t change - the Brit hates him - it’s fair.

So he goes for his final push. 

“I’ll get you Alex back.”

And with that, a handshake seals their futures.

Logan has the power to change humanity’s existence after all.

He just has to let go.

ABU DHABI

YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

He could win it all today.

In fact, he’s already seen it a million times - his first-ever vision of seeing himself holding the final trophy, the racing lines he must take, the lap when Chloe has an engine failure and thus when to pit.

Today is the day to overtake Oscar and Charles, if he wins that’s it. It’s all over. 

Everything he’s worked for, everything he has suffered for.

It would all finally mean something.

But to the universe, on the large scale of things, it means nothing. Sure, history would know his name, but his name is nothing more than that. There are a million Logan Sargeant’s - both in this reality and the next. 

History books, the statistics will never show who he is.

And that’s just the painful truth.

Toto is excited before the race. George is forced into the position of second driver.

‘Anything to help the championship’ he demands, and seeing as Ferrari has already won the Constructors, it can only mean one thing.

Anything to help him.

He blankly wonders what would happen if he revealed his plans to Toto. Lose it all on purpose, reveal the truth about his son.

He might get crushed like a pair of headphones. He’d definitely lose his contract.

But, then again, what does it matter?

He sacrificed everything to be here, only to find ‘here’ as a place of hell and misery. It wasn’t worth it - to be the one leading the championship, to be the one leading into Turn One, to be leading the first thirty laps.

Mercedes is going to be crushed.

His parents are too. They flew all the way here from Florida to watch him win.

And yet, he knows, deep down, the only way to end this - end this torrid year, this unforgiving season, is if he throws it all away. 

As he speeds down the straight, he sees it again.

Specks of champagne glisten around him like stars in the night sky, reflecting off the bright lights of the circuit. The champagne trickles down the column of his throat, into the divots of his collarbones under his fireproofs. There’s a trophy in his hands, its golden surface gleaming under the floodlights. He can hear the roar of the crowd.

Engraved in the metal reads, ‘Logan Sargeant – 2029 World Champion.’

But then the image twists, warping into something darker. The cheers of the crowd shift into an unholy roar, a cacophony of screams—not joy, not triumph, but something raw, something twisted. The screech of metal grinding on metal pierces his ears. He can smell it—the burning rubber, the acrid smoke, the stench of fire. The chaos hits him like a blow to the chest. The podium beneath his feet begins to tremble, shaking as though the very ground is ripping apart, as though the universe itself is coming undone.

He grips the wheel tighter, knuckles bleached, fingers shaking. His heart pounds in his chest, a relentless drumbeat, as though the world is trying to tear him from his seat. He pushes harder down the straight, but it’s all futile. He knows that now. He’s always known it.

The dream—the nightmare—clings to him like a second skin, tightening around his throat. It’s not just the visions anymore. It’s everything. All the pain he’s seen, the wreckage, the destruction—it was never just about racing. It’s life itself that’s falling apart. Everything he’s been through, everything he’s lost—his empathy, his sobriety, his relationships, the love of his life—it’s all for nothing. All the sacrifice, all the suffering. If he doesn’t win, what was it all for?

He’s caught between two worlds—between his own ego, that screaming, desperate need to be somebody, to win it all, to have it all mean something, and the creeping, suffocating realisation that losing is his only escape. The only way to make the visions stop

All the pain, all the sleepless nights, the breakdowns, the wreckage of his soul, what was the point of any of it?

He’s sacrificed everything to be here, to stand on that podium, to see his name etched in history as something. Without that, he’s empty. Just Oscar's boyfriend who wasn’t good enough. Just his parents’ son who failed. Just another ghost.

At that moment, speeding down the straight, the weight of it all crashes into him—the horror of what he’s seen, the inevitability of the suffering that’s to come. But it will come, whether he wins or not. That’s the truth he’s been avoiding all season. The chaos, the crashes, the screams—they’re going to happen. They’re already happening. 

His hands are shaking. His breath is ragged. His mind is a battlefield

Still, he knows what he has to do. The only way this will all stop. It’s only when he does.

"My tyre," he chokes out, forcing panic into his voice, but there’s something else there too. Desperation. He can barely keep the car steady. His mind is spinning with the nightmare of his own making.

"Guys?" His voice cracks.

There’s no instant response. He still has time, to keep leading, to change his decision, his mind, his career, his result, his destiny.

He could still win. 

Then… seeing it all, everything he’s bore witness to, it would mean something. 

“Logan?” the crackly voice of Jakob cuts off his traitorous mind. “ What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

It’s funny - being asked that - when usually the only time he’s been asked that is when he’s in the wall.

He laughs - something sour - something manic before he presses the radio button again. “Something’s wrong.”

This time the response is immediate. “Your telemetry looks fine.”

Ah, right - fuck - he should have thought of that.

“Fifteen laps remaining, Logan,” Toto’s on this now - a sense of urgency in his tone. “You can do this, just stay focused.”

Shit. There’s only one option left now. He’ll be known as ‘the choker’ - losing it all when he has it all in the cradling palm of his hand. 

It’s okay, he can do this - he’s done it a million times before, hell, he did it on purpose in Interlagos, he just needs to be like the ‘old Logan’ where he fucks it because he’s a failure, bins it because he’s a bottler, spins out like he’s stupid and shattered.

But that’s fine, right? It’s what everyone already thinks of him. He’s been there before, lived through the public scorn, the disappointed glances, the whispered accusations. He can handle it. He can handle it, maybe better than he did before.

It’s better than the alternative.

Just be that guy, he urges himself, trying to convince himself, as he crosses over the line again - unscathed. The one everyone expects you to be.

The world expects it. His parents, deep down, do. And fuck - Oscar probably hopes he’ll bin it - anything to get one step closer to the Championship.

He grips the wheel tighter, the decision looming larger as the laps count down. Half of him wishes he got drunk for this - it’d be so much easier.

His chest tightens as the weight of expectation presses down on him. Maybe this is what they’ve all been waiting for, this final moment where Logan proves them right. One more spin, one more crash, and it all makes sense. It all lines up. The screw-up in the spotlight, the man who couldn’t hold it together.

Logan’s vision blurs. His chest heaves as he bites back the sob, tears burning hot down his face. He’s crying — openly, violently — but thank god, his radio’s off. No one can hear him. No one can witness him breaking - not his parents, not even the world.

Children crying. Screaming, their small voices blending with the screech of metal and the roar of engines. It’s everywhere. It’s in his head, ringing so loud he can barely focus. He chokes on his breath, his throat tight as his entire body trembles. He’s sobbing now, full-body sobs that rattle through him.

The track, the race, it’s all fading. All he can see are those children’s faces, their innocent cries mixing with the imagined screams of dying people — the sound ripping through his skull.

“Logan?” Toto’s voice crackles through the radio, but Logan’s mind fractures again. 

No. 

The funeral — he envisions it so clearly now — the polished wood coffin, the flowers, the hollow faces of Toto and Susie as they bury their only son. 

The green teddy bear, the one that really started it all, — is there, in the coffin, a sick reminder of just how fucked his life has become. Will become. His life, Toto’s life, Jack’s life if Logan doesn’t stop it. He has to stop it.

He has to end this.

This is his only chance. 

Logan’s hands tremble on the wheel, his breath hitching, heart hammering as the funeral scene plays out in his mind — relentless, terrifying, inevitable.

This is what is right. To give up everything, his childhood dream, one of the only things that have sustained him, tethered him to this rocky planet called ‘life.’

I’m sorry - and this time he isn’t apologising to anyone but himself.

He releases the wheel, closes his eyes, and surrenders.

Oscar visits him in the medical centre’s hospital.

After his crash, Charles ended up in first.

George got second, at least Mercedes will have something to be happy about.

Oscar… Oscar remained in third - both for the race and for the Championship standings. Logan beat him by one point. Funny how things work out.

“C-Can we talk?” Logan croaks - mouth dry.

His lover runs his finger over his knuckles - it catches on the clasp they’ve got the measure his heart rate.

“Sure,” the Australian hums. Oscar probably thinks he’s depressed because of the loss - Logan can’t even be bothered thinking about it. Instead, inside him there is only an exhausted relief - a hope that it will all be over. 

Tinnitus leftover from the crash makes his left ear ring - not the screams of dying people.

The monitor beeps - Oscar doesn’t move his hand away when the nurse comes in to check his vitals. 

Logan feels himself tear up again.

“Your parents are outside,” the other looks a bit nervous - probably is, as a result of all the nights Logan has opened up about his fears of being himself around them, a fear of revealing them.

“Okay,” he goes to sit up but a warm hand on his chest stops him.

“Rest,” his boyfriend pleads. “Please. We can talk later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

The words are whispered; “I love you, Lo.”

And that does make him cry.

“I love you too.”

They’re in the penthouse again.

Oscar probably booked it with the intention of either one of them celebrating a World Championship, yet instead they both have come home, back to this glorious penthouse hotel room, empty-handed. 

“I think I’m an alcoholic,” he confesses in the serenity of this place, this place where it all began.

He feels Oscar freeze next to him. “O-Okay, Lo, we’ll get you help, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he hasn’t drank tonight, and he’s happier for it - even if the withdrawals are starting to kick in.

Rubbing his nose into the nape of Oscar’s neck, he just inhales the other’s scent, holding him close. 

Perhaps he’s a coward to have this conversation laying here - not face-to-face, not in a time they can really talk about it. But the dark’s desires always come to light in the day. Now that he’s said it, it can’t be unsaid - and Oscar’s never been the type to give up; he won’t give up on those five words.

Biting his lip he cuddles his lover deeper, brushing his hand over the grooves of his ribs that aren’t just defined by muscle growth.

“Will you-” he starts, hating the way his voice cracks as he begins. “Will you try and get some help too?”

Oscar goes ever taught in his grip. They’ve done this song and dance a million times over.

But today, tonight, Oscar finally admits; “Yeah, okay, Loges. We’ll… do this together?”

And yeah, that sounds nice. Joint recovery.

“M’ sorry,” he hums, the apology thick on his tongue. “I haven’t been there for you, Osc.”

And the other spins around so they are facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes. “I’m sorry too.”

And for the first time in a long time, they kiss. Sweet and slow and delicate; tender - like they’re exploring one another again even after a decade of dating.

Logan feels his heart swell in his chest - the heightened intimacy of the practised movements, the intensity he hasn’t felt in months. But instead of letting it overpower them and grow into continuance, they linger in it - savour it, this cherished moment together where they finally feel like equals again - unburdened by secrets or competition. 

It’s just them. Together. As it always should be.

He sleeps through the entire night, cuddled around the younger, with no nightmares, no visions.

Then the next, then the next, then the next.

It’s finally over.

And yet, in other ways, it feels like everything is just beginning.

2030

Things are going well. 

He and Oscar are slowly rebuilding the ruins of the palace around them, and Logan has stayed true to his New Year's Resolution thus far. Remaining sober. Mercedes of course found out through the rumour mill and enrolled him into a ‘rehab’ sort of program with firm parameters - if he touches a drop of alcohol he’s out.

So, he doesn’t. At this point, he doesn’t do it for the seat, however - nothing is more important than Oscar.

He is also starting to have some type of actual relationship with George - not exactly friends, but less only-for-cameras-type teammates. He helps George with GDPA duties and educates himself about the new and upcoming proposed regulation changes for driver’s safety. Hell, one time he even goes with the taller directly to the FIA to propose a new type of bolt that gives the monocoque of the cockpit more durability and protection for the drivers.

In turn, Logan is doing his best to make good on his promise to the elder too - trying to understand what happened between Alex and George, trying to be some sort of mediator and encouragement for them. He spent time with Alex over the break - trying to understand what happened between them - why they fell apart. Truthfully, it was similar to the myriad of reasons he and Oscar did - pressure, stress, the cruel business of the trade, undefined powers and gripes.

Alex is waiting for them after they wrap up a sponsorship shoot. Logan watches as the two Brits embrace. 

George is happier these days - probably because for the first time in his life he doesn’t have to wait for second place to his teammate. At the beginning Toto still prioritised Logan, giving him the upgrade packages first, getting him into the pits at the best times. But now, Logan’s inability to literally see the future of each race, has dampened his performance, but he’s okay with that.

Logan’s never gotten as close to a World Championship as he did the year prior. He won in Qatar again, a shock to everyone but him as he realised mid-qualifying that he saw this in a premonition last year and thus knows exactly what line to take, but apart from that, the best place he managed was fifth.

Toto still has some misguided faith in him even despite the drinking debacle. 

To try and repay him, because he knows it’s unlikely he will win again, he takes a trip to the hospital near his and Oscar’s apartment. He doesn’t give his lover a reason why he goes (well he doesn’t actually tell him where he’s going), and nor does he give a reason as to why he’s there when the nurse asks.

He picks up pamphlets for cancer, recalling the press releases that flashed in his mind last year, and finally recognises one of them. Ependymoma. Rare. Can happen in children and adults. Impacts the central nervous system.

He also grabs a few more; ones such as ‘Children with Cancer: A Guide for Parents’, or ‘Symptoms of a Serious Issue’ that hopefully will change Toto’s mind that Jack is just ‘tired’ because of karting or ‘down’ because he’s losing.

He hopes it will change Toto’s mind. He can’t just go up to his boss and say ‘hey, your kid has cancer by the way’ because the Austrian might just think it’s a cruel joke and slam him into a desk like a poor pair of headphones.

He decides to wrap them up with ribbon like it’s a completely normal mail bundle sent by a charity or organisation that other people would just ignore. 

Toto won’t though.

He slips it into the elder’s mailbox the next time he’s at the factory for meetings and sim-work.

When the day is over he messages Oscar that he’ll be home late, hits the gym and waits for dusk to fade into darkness. 

And sure enough, as he walks past Toto’s office, he can see the man sternly at his computer, orange flyer scrunched precariously in a white-knuckled hand.

Logan doesn’t win the championship. Neither does Charles. Or Oscar.

Ollie Bearman, Ferrari’s newest talent, does.

The fireworks light up red and yellow at Yas Marina. 

The reflections of the bursts of light are on Oscar’s porcelain skin, in the bright of his eyes, in the wine glass filled with Shiraz as they sit together on the penthouse balcony - that even though neither of them deserved with a Championship, has now become some sort of tradition.

As the fireworks and rumbling cheers hurrah at Ferrari’s return to top form, they watch the people below - small like ants beneath them.

They go back inside, they make love, and embrace one another as they fade into the good night.

2031

Call him a coward, but he fakes being ill to get out of racing in Belgium.

It’s bittersweet really - this is the last year of his contract, and Spa has always been an incredible track to drive. Thus, willingly sacrificing perhaps the last time he will go flat-out through Eau Rouge is rather stupid, but he thinks if he does attempt it he might end up in the wall.

Because today is the day.

Today is the day of one of his worst premonitions, his worst fears come to life. 

Liam Lawson’s fatal accident.

Some people say this circuit holds its ghosts. All the deaths that have happened here in history, especially those of the most recent decades. 

He can only pray the safety precautions he has worked on for two years since his fateful dream will work.

He can only pray that Liam will survive.

There were other ways to do this, surely. Tell Liam to go easy on the throttle at turn six. Beg Liam not to race today. Explain to him about his premonitions and how he saw the RedBull crumpled up into a wall with only the number ‘40’ remaining on its chassis.

But all those ideas would surely get him sent a few bewildered looks from his close friend or the rest of the grid if he were to utter them. Toto would probably send him back to rehab, believing his ramblings are the words of a drunken man. Oscar wouldn’t believe him if Logan tried to tell him differently. 

He’d be so disappointed.

Besides, who’s to say, that even if he somehow convinced Liam not to drive, it wouldn’t just be another driver in the wall? It’s happened with some of the premonitions before - like the purple vase. 

He can’t claim sick and then show up at the track. So from his hotel dining table, he watches the five red lights count down, then fade to black. 

He can hear Crofty’s catchphrase from the television. “And it’s lights out and away we go-”

Oscar nails his start - jumping Charles next to him in P4.

Liam, from pole, does too.

Please, he watches as twenty cars rush towards Turn One.

“The back of the pack has bunched up, all vying for position here-”

Please, he closes his eyes and prays as the navy and red car falls into second place.

“And that’s a place lost for our race leader, let’s see what Lawson can do into Radion-”

“Please,” his voice comes out wrecked like he does actually have a cough, and he clenches his hands together as Eau Rogue begins and-

“-There’s been contact!”

The car spins.

Everything goes in slow-motion as the camera captures the RedBull car skidding uncontrollably into the middle of the track where eighteen other cars are heading straight for it - shrouded in dust picked up from the wheels and-

It cuts to a crowd shot.

“There’s been an accident,” comes Crofty’s forlorn voice - a voice filled with knowing, with dread.

Logan feels his stomach curdle as a ‘red flag’ graphic pops up onscreen.

Please, God, please.

“We can confirm the RedBull of Liam Lawson has been involved-”

It cuts again to the car, crumpled up in a barrier, snapped in half and tossed away into the wall. 

“So has the Haas of Pedro Clerot-”

His heart drops. Pedro. He never knew who else was involved in the accident despite his premonitions, until now. Fuck. Has he done enough? He only rallied to increase the strength of the cockpit, mainly the sides after seeing what happened to Liam - but what about the front of the car? Where Pedro was certainly hit?

Fuck, this is one of his best friends - Pedro’s just a kid and fuck, fuck-!

Were all his efforts for nothing?

A chunk of bile does crawl up his throat as the muddied white of his past teammate’s car flipped over shows up on screen, before it switches to that dreaded sight - of Liam’s chassis crumpled into the wall, only the number ‘40’ still discernible. 

Relief washes over him as the green of the Brazilian flag plastered onto Pedro’s helmet comes out from under the car - the young driver bouncing away from the accident with no severe injuries. 

The camera shot focuses on the RedBull once more.

Please, please-

And then, Liam moves. 

Logan forces himself to swallow, wide-eyed as he leans forward closer to the television, where the broadcast is shown.

“We can confirm both drivers are okay, I repeat, they are both okay-”

It is only then when he allows himself to weep.

Not from sadness or grief. But from cruel relief - a respite from the weight that has heavied his shoulders for years, dread and pain, all gone.

Through his quiet tears, he watches both Liam and Pedro walk away from their ruined cars towards ambulances awaiting them. Walk away alive.

He’s always known that letting go of his dream, and sacrificing his wants, was for the better. 

But this… this confirms it.

He saved a life today. Hell, perhaps he saved two.

And he’d lose the World Championship destined for him that heinous year, all over again, if it meant preventing their deaths.

He’d do it a million times over.

The one person he can’t save is his mother.

Dressed in all-black, Oscar at his side, he attends the funeral, holds his sister through her sobs. It’s strange, really. People are looking at him like he’s a sociopath, hell, Oscar is too, because he isn’t crying. He can claim shock, he supposes.

It’s not like he’s known she would die three days ago for the past two years after all.

Everyone dies one day.

That day was her’s.

It was unavoidable. No underlying illness like Jack Wolff’s cancer, no event Logan could foretell and warn about. He went through all the scenarios in his mind of how it happened.

But it was just a random heart attack. Something tragic, something sudden, something no amount of cardio or medication could stop.

Still, it hurts.

Oscar squeezes his hand in silent comfort, as his father gets up to read the eulogy. 

Logan manages a sort-of-half-smile at him. 

The one thing he’s truly thankful for is tell his mother how much he loves Oscar. Come out to his parents properly after so many years of hiding. He thinks, bitterly, that if he hadn’t known his mother would pass, he would have been a coward - kept it quiet - never have gathered the courage to do it. 

He squeezes Oscar’s hand back. His father steps down from the pedestal.

Now it’s his turn to speak. 

And as he moves to the front of their little gathering, he takes a solemn look at the coffin that holds his mother, the woman who raised him, the person that supported him most.

He’s glad, that before she passed, he got to tell her how much he loved her too.

Fireworks spark - reflecting in his helmet visor as he crosses the final finish line.

He’d been battling Clerot for the last three laps and it’s drained him.  Even though he didn’t see it as a premonition, the Brazilian driver, his friend, will surely become a champion one day.

But not today.

“Congratulations,” comes the voice of his racing engineer. “That’s P7, a remarkable finish from where you started, and a great way to end off your year.”

He composes himself, emotion suddenly overcoming him as he truly feels the Mercedes beneath him roar as he starts on his cooldown lap. 

“Thank you,” he manages - trying not to sound too choked up. “Thank you for a brilliant year once again.”

“Congrats, Logan,” comes the easily identifiable accent of his boss. “Thank you for your time here at Mercedes, you have been brilliant.”

Well, that’s kind but probably a slight exaggeration. Since 2029, he only won two races - one last year being the ‘shock’ pole position in Qatar which he took till the chequered flag, and the most recent, actual shock,  at his home in Miami this season. It was incredible. It was also the last race his mother got to see.

He almost lets a tear slip into his balaclava at the thought of her, watching up from the skies in Heaven, but he holds it. This is his last race in Formula One. He’s been lucky Toto kept him for so long, and despite offers from other teams, like Kick Sauber and Williams, he’s just decided to… go. It feels important, to retire - ‘when he’s still so young’ as the press say, often bringing up his success in his first year of his Mercedes contract along with it.

But Logan knows. He’s missed his chance to win a Championship. And in worse cars, if he did decide to stay in the sport, he’ll likely never win another race again. Miami was nice to be his last - something he didn’t even see coming. 

It feels… final. Closed like a book, this way.

He waves at fans, ignores everything but them and his own mind, and receives the ‘thumbs-up’ to do doughnuts to celebrate his departure but before he crawls to the line he forces himself to ask, mayhaps the most important question of the night.

“Who won?”

Jakob takes a few seconds to answer - all the executive staff know about his relationship with Oscar - they had to when he listed his emergency contact as the Australian all those years back.

The radio’s crackle comes before the answer. “Liam did.”

For some reason, the answer doesn’t make him as disappointed as expected. Likely because in a different universe Liam would have been six feet under right now. And in that reality… well… Oscar wouldn’t have had a title fight going into Yas Marina tonight. 

If Logan hadn’t intervened in the natural ways and will of the world, Oscar would be a three-time World Champion tonight.

Guilt hits him harder than his body hits the reinforced side of his chassis as the crowd and racetrack blur into a never-ending circle. Oscar will be furious with himself, likely going over everything he did wrong tonight in his mind, then reviewing it all through the holidays when they’re supposed to be enjoying time in each other’s hometowns.  

He slams his foot harder on the pedal. 

Oscar will understand.

Oscar won’t blame him.

Oscar will only blame himself.

And if it’s true, Logan doesn’t see it. 

His lover has booked the penthouse suite once more, as per tradition, and treats him like a god. Likely to distract him from the fact he won’t be a racecar driver next year - something that since eight years old has been a huge part of his identity, the pride and turmoil of his family, his career that led to two kids from different hemispheres of the Globe to meet, to fall in love and to end up here in this hotel bed despite everything.

Sleepy in his post-orgasmic haze and too exhausted to unravel himself from the maroon duvet, all he can do is lovingly smile at Oscar through the balcony glass screen.

The Australian’s gold band around his ring finger glimmers under the starlight. Oscar notices him after a few seconds - halting his gaze over the racetrack and quietly beams back.

When he closes his eyes, and settles into the pillows he hears the balcony door slide open, then closed, and soon enough a cold nose tickles the back of his neck.

“Babe,” he tries to wriggle away from the cold, but Oscar just huffs out a small laugh and wraps his arms around him, rendering any escape impossible.

“I love you,” comes his fiancé’s words.

Slumber is quickly approaching him, sucking him into darkness. 

But before it does, he murmurs out.

“I love you too.”

2032

“Hey,” Oscar’s breath is hot over his ear and Logan feels his chest rumble with a groan - the sleep that was so close to becoming his, slipping away from him.

“What is it, babe?” he questions, blinking his eyes to adjust to the darkness - the phone reads one a.m. Beside him, Oscar looks like he hasn’t fallen asleep yet - like he’s well-manicured, well-rested - eyes dancing with the moonlight slivered between the cracks of their curtains.

Logan supposes that’s what winning races does to a man.

It’s summer break. Well, winter, he supposes because they’re visiting Oscar’s family before the younger’s racing season resumes. Logan has been idle since the beginning of the year - coming along to races as a WAG, on the side pushing for more and more safety enforcements for Formula One. 

Oscar has been the star of the show. Radiant, just like always. They’ve completed twelve, of their twenty-five races this season. He hasn’t lost a single one.

“Do…” Oscar swallows, somehow both hesitant and confident at the same time. “Do you ever wanna’ have kids someday? W-With me?”

That really wakes him. Sitting up from his pillows, residual drowsiness shot out of his body at his husband’s words he turns to face Oscar, heart hammering from happiness.

“I’d like to think they’d be with you,” his tongue feels heavy in his mouth - and his slight stutter over his words kinda’ ruins the humour of his joke because of fucking course if he ever had kids they’d be with Oscar and - 

“-Yes,” he confirms explicitly, love swelling in his chest. “Yes, Osc! One hundred percent.”

The Australian smiles at him then, something warm and hopeful.

“Good, I want to as well.”

“Yeah?” giddiness crawls into his chest, exploding from his pores as he peppers a kiss to his lover’s lips. 

“Yeah,” Oscar smiles dumbly - the word seemingly all they can both say. “I think to me, starting a family - having one with you is - like - the most important thing to me. At least after I get this championship trophy - then… we can have time to figure it out.”

“Time?” he pulls back though it is so difficult to do, wondering if Oscar is implying what Logan thinks he’s implying-

“Maybe,” Oscar sits up as well, eyebrows knitted together. “I mean, after three championships - knock on wood - ” (the Australian raps his knuckles on their bedframe cheekily.) “I dunno’ what else Formula One could offer me. Like - I dunno’ if it’s gonna be a full-retirement like you - perhaps I’ll pull an Alonso and come back one day-”

“Not to Alpine-Renault,” Logan grins and lavishes in the way his lover snorts.

“No, definitely not to Alpine-Renault-Whatever-They’re-Going-To-Be-Called-Next-Year,” he hums, sagging back into the pillows. “But we could take a year, look into some clinics, welcome Mr. Man into the world and see where we go from there?”

 Following his husband back into the duvets, Logan snorts. “How are you so sure it’s going to be a boy?”

Oscar squeezes his hand, giving him a pointed faux glare. “Don’t judge me, okay?”

“Never.”

“Well, I just had the most vivid dream - and I know basing shit of a dream is stupid, but we had a kid with your hair and my eyes and he was the sweetest little thing…”

And Logan’s heart stops.

Vivid dream.

Oscar has won every race since the beginning of the season. He’s out-doing Max Verstappen’s previous record. The press are talking about his comeback and how McLaren is rising again, albeit this time with Lando as a performance coach instead of a driver. A complete turn-around after the past two years.

Vivid dream.

Premonitions.

Oscar still has the sappy, love-struck, hopeful look on his face as he talks. Logan can’t even hear what he’s saying anymore, he can only feel the light touch on his hand where the other is drawing constellations or writing name ideas. 

He hasn’t got to the second stage yet.

He hasn’t seen the future past Formula One races and track temperatures and tyre choices.

But he’s seen a son. Their son, presumably.

It’s only beginning. The horror of it all.

It’s only ending. Oscar’s innocence, Oscar’s happiness.

Logan doesn’t know how he believed so wholeheartedly that he escaped it. Escaped the deeper-most cruxes of his cruel wish. 

However the images, the flashes, the tremors, the headaches, the pain, the guilt, the fear, the sadness, the all-knowingness of what the world will become, how humanity will turn on each other never truly left.

They remain in every reflection - ghosts of children begging for their mothers, drowning in the salt of tears and oceans, turning cold and blue. They remain in every action - every stance he has taken since his decision - rallying with the GDPA, promoting peace instead of wars, setting a phone reminder on the seventh of July in eight years time when he knows a meteor will strike parts of Albania so that he remembers to call and warn them.

And now, Oscar has made that trade. A trade of personal and professional success at the cost of his and the Earth’s humanity.

Logan thought he was weak back then. Drinking it away, having panic attacks in his driver's room, pushing everyone away. Now he can see himself as strong, having sacrificed everything from his first World Championship that would have redeemed him to his very own mother, to try and stop just a few of the things he could change.

Oscar is the strongest person he knows.

And yet Oscar is also one of the greediest people he knows. 

Taking everything he can, winning every time he can, loving with everything he has. 

Even this child. Although Logan can still only hear that buzz in his ear - a cacophony of bombs exploding, of metal crunching against barriers, of children screaming - he can see the way love dances across the Australian’s features.

This child that does not exist yet. But certainly will one day.

Unless Oscar can sacrifice it.

To save himself. To save all of them.

Tears burn in his eyes. 

Because Oscar isn’t the type to give up the most important thing to him.

He never has been.