rendeer | pretty boys and their tiny waists

But the room is empty when he gets there, his soft breath of relief the only sound. There's something mocking about the way it echoes back, the sound of it wounded and edged with a sadness he's doing his utmost to keep at bay.

If he strains his ears he can hear the continued celebrations raging on outside the walls. Laughter and music and fireworks, booming voices over microphones, a raucous crowd that will be partying well into the early hours of the morning.

A few races ago, he was so sure this celebration would be for him. Now he looks up from the bottom of a wreckage he created.

It wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough. And somehow that knowledge hurts more than the loss, a punch to the gut that has him physically stumbling over to the small couch, hands scrambling for purchase on the arm as he folds into the cushions.

He's still there, sinking back into the sofa with his head in his hands, breaths blooming and sticking in his throat, too fast and too harsh, when he hears the snick of the door opening.

"I'll be out in five," he manages, voice muffled by his palms. His heart sinks at the intrusion, mind screaming at him to get it together; find some strength so that he doesn't look like the loser he is, but he can't. He needs -

Time. More than five minutes, but that's not going to happen here.

"Fuck that," the response is amused, accent curling abruptly around the vowels. "At least take ten, mate."

The familiarity of it has Oscar's spine zipping from top to tail, hands falling immediately into his lap. He senses his cheeks flushing as what feels like all the blood in his body rushes to them, coughing awkwardly as Max steps into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Um," Oscar manages, cringing at the way his voice sounds - high and airy, his surprise at Max's presence blatant. "Hi?"

Max doesn't answer him for a moment. He takes a few more steps past the threshold, eyes bright and inquisitive as he looks around the room with clear interest before they come to settle on Oscar.

"Huh," he comments, still amused. "It's smaller than the red bull rooms."

The nothingness of the comment has Oscar's shoulder relaxing a little, albeit not totally. There's an absurdity to the situation that makes him snort; this idea that Max has come to find him to - what, exactly? Measure room sizes?

Unlikely.

"Probably cheaper too," he arches a brow.

Max grins, too big for his face. "Definitely. You got any good snacks at least?"

He's already moving towards the small fridge in the corner, purposeful and like he's been here before. He hasn't. At least, Oscar thinks he hasn't and it would be pretty weird if he has, actually, so...

He shrugs, resisting the urge to pinch himself, like checking whether he's really awake after a bad dream. "Protein shakes, probably."

A few high-carb, high-protein snacks curated by Artturi, if he's lucky. He hasn't even looked in the fridge today, his stomach an anxious knot, but now he recognises the hunger in it. It growls loudly, forcing a deeper shade of pink to his face when Max half-smirks at him.

"Do you mind?" He asks but he's already reaching in and grabbing a packet of peanut butter protein balls, so Oscar's response seems superfluous at best.

Still.

"Knock yourself out," he mutters.

It's - weird, definitely. Max being here. Has him on edge, fingers drumming nervously over his thighs as he waits for Max to explain himself, make sense of this whole thing. He feels like he should - get up. Offer Max a drink or something, offer him his seat. But it's not like he invited Max here, and Max seems perfectly content to make himself at home anyway, so.

Oscar stays sitting, apprehensive as he watches Max make his way around the room, noisily ripping into the packet and shoving two of the balls in his mouth at once.

"They're a bit dry," he winces at the sight, unable to stop the sigh that leaves him when he realises he's definitely going to have to offer Max a drink now. Reaching across to the table, he grabs one of the full water bottles, handing it over. It's room temperature by now, but he wasn't exactly expecting any guests, so Max'll have to make do.

"Thanks," Max says around a mouthful, immediately washing it down with a gulp from the bottle. "These aren't very good," he shakes the packet under Oscar's nose. "Do you want one?"

"You haven't really sold them to me, mate."

Max shrugs. "Suit yourself."

A silence descends between them, awkward and stretching. Oscar can't figure out what he's meant to do or say, so he does and says nothing. It's probably not the best course of action but, honestly - he's starting to feel slightly irritated with Max the longer the silence remains. He's the one who has forced them into this situation and he's not making any effort to explain himself.

Oscar's throat itches.

He looks at the clock on the far side of the wall, following the minute arm around three more times before he cracks.

"Look," he frowns. "I'm not really in the mood for - whatever this is. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Instantly he feels bad about the rudeness of it; can hear his mother's voice in the back of his head, telling him she didn't raise him to be like this. But it's a shit day at the end of a season that's torn him apart from the inside out, and the last thing he needs is Max and his weirdness.

Max seems to take it on the chin well enough. "Not really," he shrugs again, taking another slow, long mouthful of water. Oscar's eyes catch on the bob of his Adam's apple briefly before he forces his gaze back up. "Thought you might be holed up in here, of course," he continues, something careful in the way he looks at Oscar. "Feeling sorry for yourself."

It stings because it's true. Oscar feels heat prickle behind his eyes, horror rising like a tide in his throat, suffocating. Jesus. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Max Verstappen.

Clearing his throat, he keeps his tone painstakingly neutral. "Yeah, well. Not everyday you lose a championship."

"No," Max says agreeably. "But it is just your first."

Just. Like it doesn't matter somehow. Oscar wishes it didn't. But it's everything - Max of all people should know that, right?

"Easy for you to say," he says listlessly. "You've got four already."

He hears the soft chuckle Max makes, more of an exhale than anything of substance.

"Losing doesn't get easier, though."

Yeah. Oscar can appreciate that, he thinks, and that's even worse, really. The idea that he could feel like this again - that he probably will, over the course of his career. Hopefully, because at least that means he's going to be in the game for a long time. Silver linings, he supposes.

He doesn't know why, but Max's presence carves out a hole in his chest; has him confessing before he can truly think it through, this weakness he's about to show one of his strongest competitors.

"I'm worried I won't get another chance."

After, he doesn't risk looking at Max. Can't. Embarrassment floods him, fingers picking at an invisible piece of lint on his fireproofs, head down as he stares at the curves of his own thighs.

He didn't realise, really, how scared he's been until he said it. And it feels all at once like both a weight lifted and a weapon given. He doesn't know how to balance the confliction of those emotions, waves roiling in his stomach.

"Maybe you won't," Max says quietly.

Oscar does look at him then, surprise colouring his features - for a moment, he expects to feel - anger, maybe, at the fact that Max could say that. But he doesn't. With shock, he realises he feels relieved at the honesty, the way Max isn't handling him with kid gloves.

It speaks of a level of respect he's always wanted but has never been sure he can obtain, not from Max.

"But for what it's worth," Max offers him a smile. "I think you will have another chance. I think you will have plenty."

Oscar swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking at Max - there's something appreciative warming his chest now, together with a different kind of nervousness.

"Of course," Max continues. "I will be there to try to take it away from you."