Work Text:
The paddock was daunting.
Despite having his headphones securely fastened on his head, Logan could feel the beat of each sound resonating through the soles of his feet. The press yelled, volleying out questions. Fans shrieked into chaos. The motors rumbled in his ribcage. He stood huddled just off the McLaren hospitality suite, wrapped in Oscar's hoodie, large, warm, and filled with the scent of laundry powder and something very Oscar.
He clenched his fists tightly around the sleeves.
"Too loud?" a familiar, low, gentle voice asked.
Logan looked up to see Oscar in front of him, his fireproof suit on, helmet under his arm, his warm brown eyes already fixed on Logan, singly focused.
Logan shrugged.
"Too much," he replied after a moment. "Everybody's everywhere."
Oscar nodded slowly, his fingers grazing the edge of Logan's sleeve before he took his hand in a gentle hold.
"Come to the driver's room. I asked them to put a quiet room there for you. I have 10 minutes before I'm due onto the grid."
Logan nodded. The walk was short, but Logan remained close, their hands held, the hoodie's sleeves brushing against Oscar's knuckles.
In the drivers' room, Logan fell onto the couch with a gentle sigh. Oscar sat beside him, their legs touching.
“You okay?” Oscar asked.
"Yep. Better now." Logan breathed in deeply. "I think the Panthers have a real shot this year. Their forecheck has been so strong, and Bobrovsky, he's not perfect, but he plays better under pressure than people tend to give him credit for."
Oscar grinned immediately. "Yeah?"
"And Reinhart's shot, Oscar, his shooting percentage? Career high. You don't even like hockey but I need you to know this."
Oscar smiled softly as he leaned in to run his fingers through Logan's hair. "I don't need to enjoy hockey," he said. "I enjoy you. That's the important part. But hockey is important to you so it is important to me."
Logan's face reddened and he lowered his head. "I waffle on sometimes."
"You never do," said Oscar. "Not to me."
---
Logan was crouched in the race hospitality suite corner, headphones on, watching Oscar's onboard on a tablet. He cringed at every near-miss, small words of encouragement that no one heard, and wiped his sleeve across his mouth when Oscar crossed the line P4.
The post-race interview came on shortly after. Logan never used to watch those. This time, however, he made an exception.
Oscar was covered in sweat, his hair slicked back under his cap and a small, humble smile on his lips that betrayed the inner quiet pride he had.
"Fourth today," said the reporter. "Good points from up close to the podium, take me through it.".
Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I believe it was a good race. It had a bit of a rough start, but I was capable of keeping it clean and taking it home. My crew did an amazing strategy. And..."
He halted.
A softer smile.
"I received the best pre-race pep talk from someone who means the world to me. This one is for them."
The interviewer smiled politely and continued, happily oblivious.
Yet Logan understood.
He was sitting, motionless, the hoodie sleeves still clenched in his fists, heart thudding like a drumline in his chest.
Oscar meant him.
As Oscar came back, his hair damp and in a McLaren polo shirt, he made a beeline for Logan. No cameras, no drama, just Logan, still in his hoodie, still curled up in the corner of the sofa.
"Hello Loges" Oscar said, carefully pushing Logan's headphones aside.
Logan nodded. "You meant me."
Oscar smiled. "Indeed I did."
Logan breathed out slowly. "I do like being here," he conceded. "Even when it's difficult sometimes."
Oscar leaned forward, forehead to Logan's. "You don't need to attend every race. But when you do attend? You make it all the more enjoyable."
Logan smiled. "I want to come. Just.. maybe not a street circuit."
Oscar laughed. "Deal. And you can tell me more hockey stats before every race."
"Don't joke. I will."
"I know," Oscar replied, kissing him then, gentle and sure. "And I will always hear."
---
The trip from the track to their Miami apartment was short, a car ride and a sequence of half-nods from security. Logan spoke little during the ride. He had Oscar's hoodie on, burrowing deeper into the seat, his fingers toying with the drawstrings.
The minute they stepped inside the apartment door, something in Logan physically relaxed.
The din faded into silence. The engines and the roar of the crowd were absent. There was just the gentle hum of the air conditioning and the welcoming groan of the hardwood floor beneath his socks.
He kicked off his shoes, slung the hoodie over the back of the sofa, and disappeared into their bedroom for a few seconds. When he came back, he was wearing his favourite sleep shirt and a pair of comfortable McLaren joggers Oscar had stolen for him last year.
Oscar observed as he walked across the kitchen, slowly turning on the kettle with a hint of respectful wonder.
"Are you alright?" Oscar spoke gently.
Logan nodded. "Yeah. Now I am."
He didn't say a word, just poured them each a mug of tea, Oscar's with honey, his with sugar. They settled in together on the couch, legs comfortably snuggled under a plush throw blanket, mugs precariously perched on the coffee table.
Oscar leaned back. "You were amazing today. You handled everything so well. And you always look so cute in my hoodie, by the way."
"I know," Logan said, smiling faintly.
They lapsed into a muted conversation, half watching the commentary before the start of the hockey game and half wandering through trivialities, when Oscar launched into a tale of Lando mixing up his energy drinks, Logan abruptly tensed, a weird feeling of urgency taking hold of him.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Oscar blinked.
"I was waiting to do something," Logan replied, "but I don't want to anymore. I need to do it now. While I am calm. While I am just with you."
Oscar was going to speak, but Logan got up from where he was sitting. He strode across the room purposefully, pulled open a drawer in their sideboard, and returned with a small navy box, cradling it in both hands.
"I've had it for months," Logan confessed, his own voice barely above a whisper and trembling slightly. "Through airports. In the car. It's been tucked away in backpack. I overthought it. I thought I needed to do something huge. But that's not me, that's not us."
Oscar's heart was pounding.
Logan dropped to one knee on the living room carpet, the box clutched firmly in his hand. His gaze met Oscar's, his eyes a jumble of openness, conviction, and a touch of fear.
"I love you," he said. "I love you for patience with me, for the fact that you actually see me. You've never needed me to be somebody else. You've never attempted to change me or hide me. And I would like to marry you. You make me feel so happy and so cared for and I would like to marry you, Oscar."
He opened the box. It contained a plain band, smooth platinum, no flash, solid and true and elegant.
Oscar's breathing ceased. "Logan."
"I don't need fireworks," Logan whispered, his voice gentle now. "I just need you to say yes."
Oscar slid from the couch onto the floor, kneeling right in front of him.
"Yes," he said, his voice trembling. "Yes, Logan. Of course, yes."
Logan grinned, full and uncompromising, and Oscar kissed him, fingers sliding into Logan's hair, the ring clutched between them.
Afterward, wrapped together in bed with Logan's head on his chest and the ring box still open on the nightstand, Oscar whispered:
"You could have asked me in the middle of a pit lane. I still would have said yes."
"I know," Logan whispered. "But this was better. This was ours."
--
The following race weekend came too soon, as they always did. But this one was different.
Oscar stepped out of the car at the paddock, Logan a few strides behind in a plain black hoodie and black jeans, oversized noise-cancelling headphones already in place on his ears. His hand brushed Oscar's for an instant, a fleeting squeeze, a steadying grip, and then they walked as they normally did: together, yet unnoticed.
Except this time, someone was.
Not Logan, precisely, he'd always been reserved and secretive amidst the chaos of F1, but the glint of light on Oscar's hand as he picked up a water bottle or signed a fan's cap. A silver ring, perched demurely on his ring finger.
Rumours spread before the inaugural practice session.
Oscar said nothing.
When he headed out to get geared up for FP1, Logan was hovering outside the McLaren motorhome. Wordlessly, Oscar slid the ring off his finger and passed it into Logan's hand. Logan wrapped his own around it like it was something precious.
"Keep it safe for me?" Oscar whispered.
"Always."
Oscar kissed the side of Logan's temple, just beneath the band of his headphones, before heading into the garage.
When he slipped on his gloves a few minutes later, the new stitching glittered in the lights. A tasteful silver embroidery, barely visible unless you looked, traced the shape of a ring across his left hand.
He hadn't told anyone. Just the technician who had altered it, and Logan, who had nodded when Oscar had shown him the mock-up weeks before.
A small rebellion. A quiet rebellion.
By Quali, the internet was already picking apart the photos. Screenshots of his gloved hand. Fans zooming in on the pattern. Speculation flared.
It all came to a head during the post-qualifying interviews.
One of the media reporters, trying to tread carefully but not hiding their curiosity, finally asked, “Oscar, we’ve noticed you’re wearing, or were wearing, a ring this weekend. Is there something you’d like to share?”
Oscar hesitated for half a breath, then smiled softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m engaged.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just let the words hang in the air like something warm and certain.
He glanced off to the side of the media pen, where Logan was sitting far from the crowd, watching the livestream on his phone with his headphones on. He looked up, caught Oscar’s eye, and gave the tiniest nod.
That was all the approval Oscar needed.
Once the thrill of Qualifying had dissipated later that evening, the hotel room was filled with the soothing hum of the air conditioning, interspersed with the gentle clink of mugs being washed. It was then that Oscar opened his phone and began to scroll through his camera roll.
He stopped on one image.
It was from the night Logan had proposed to him, a photo Oscar had taken hours later, almost by reflex, as though the moment itself was something he wished never to forget.
Logan's hand rested in his, fingers tangled loosely. Oscar's ring was already on his finger, quietly gleaming in the warm yellow lamplight of their living room. The atmosphere was wonderfully mundane, two coffee cups on the table, a hockey game paused on the television, both of them huddled into the couch in joggers and hoodies far too large.
No faces.
Only the comfort of their space, their life.
Only them.
With no hesitation, Oscar posted it. The caption read simply: I said yes. I have never been happier to share my life with somebody. Love you L.
No tags. No places.
They embodied everything they were, quiet, intentional, and steady.
The post started taking off within minutes. Friends commented with heart symbols, exclamation points, and inside jokes were shared.
Fans appreciated the intimacy, the quiet, the warmth that it radiated.
Speculation gave way to celebration.
And the whole time, Logan was beside him, legs tucked under a blanket, arms wrapped around Oscar's torso.
He leaned forward and bestowed a gentle kiss on Oscar's shoulder.
"I like that one," he muttered under his breath.
"I hoped you would."
They didn't need the spotlight. Just this: a ring, a photo, and the silent promise of forever.