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Max wasn’t a stranger to affection. He had grown up with his mother’s warmth, the quiet reassurances from people who cared about him. From his father? none, the only thing his father gave him was that in Formula 1, where the air was thick with competition, all of his relationships had to be built on a foundation of respect, not sentimentality.
That was why dating Oscar and Lando had been… an adjustment.
They were both affectionate—Oscar in a quiet, grounding way, and Lando in an unfiltered, exuberant manner. Max didn’t mind it, per se, but sometimes it caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to people who expressed love so openly.
It had started small.
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The first time Oscar held his hand in public, Max had stiffened instinctively.
It had been after a race, one where he had barely scraped P3 after a tough fight with Charles. He was irritated, replaying every mistake in his head, walking beside Oscar and Lando toward the paddock. He hadn’t even noticed how tense he was until Oscar’s fingers brushed against his, then linked together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Max had nearly yanked his hand back, but Oscar gave a gentle squeeze, grounding him.
“You drove well,” Oscar had said simply.
Max exhaled, feeling some of the tension dissipate. His instinct was to tell Oscar not to do this here, where people could see, but the warmth of his hand was… nice. Reassuring.
So Max let it happen.
Lando had noticed, grinned at them, and then dramatically slung an arm around Max’s shoulders.
“Our little champion just needs some love, huh?”
Max had groaned and shoved him off, but neither of them let go of him entirely.
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Cuddling had been another hurdle.
Max wasn’t against it. He enjoyed it, in fact, but it took time for him to adjust to how easily Oscar and Lando initiated it.
One evening, they were in Lando’s apartment, watching some movie Max wasn’t really paying attention to. Oscar was seated on the floor, leaning against the couch, while Lando sprawled out, half-draped over Max’s lap like a content cat.
Max had gone stiff when Lando did it.
“Relax,” Lando murmured, not even opening his eyes.
Oscar had glanced over, then, without hesitation, reached for Max’s hand and intertwined their fingers.
Max felt warm. Not in an overwhelming way, but in a way that made him hesitate before pulling away.
He didn’t.
It became a habit after that. Lando would casually lean against him, Oscar would reach for his hand, and Max would fight the instinct to pull away.
Eventually, he stopped fighting it altogether.
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Kissing had been the hardest.
Not because Max didn’t like it—he did. But he wasn’t used to the spontaneity of it.
Lando and Oscar could kiss each other effortlessly, in the middle of conversations, before races, just passing by in the motorhome. It wasn’t something Max had ever thought about doing.
It had led to an awkward moment after a particularly chaotic qualifying session. Max had been frustrated, running a hand through his hair while reviewing data in the Red Bull garage.
Oscar had walked in, still in his McLaren gear, and before Max could react, he had leaned in and kissed him—just a brief press of lips, like it was normal.
“Don’t overthink it,” Oscar had said.
Max had stared at him, heart hammering.
“I—”
“Just saying hi,” Oscar had added with a small smile, before walking off like it was nothing.
It was not nothing.
Max had spent the next fifteen minutes pretending he wasn’t completely thrown off.
Lando, of course, had found the whole thing hilarious.
It took time, but Max got used to it.
To the way Lando would pull him into hugs without hesitation.
To the way Oscar would squeeze his hand when he was stressed.
To the way they kissed him without a second thought, as if it was just as normal as breathing.
And, eventually, Max stopped hesitating.
He kissed Oscar first one day, after a race, surprising them both.
He pulled Lando in when he reached for a hug, instead of waiting for it to happen.
He let himself love them the way they loved him.
It wasn’t an adjustment anymore.
It was just them.