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Logan's hands trembled slightly under the weight of the mug.
He was glad for summer break. Sometimes he wondered if he was really meant to be a race driver. The racing schedule was brutal and they were only halfway through the year. It'd been particularly awful for him. Honestly, the only ones who seemed to be having just as much of a bad time as him were the Ferrari drivers. There was something rotten in the house of Ferrari because they were basically getting the Williams special and that really shouldn't be happening to a top team. Sure they had money, but holy shit.
He almost wanted the whole thing to be over. For Williams to actually replace him. He was tired of the media. He was tired of trying and trying and trying to make things work yet failing at every turn. He was tired of fearing for when his seat would be pulled out from under him because James had been trying pretty damn hard. He was tired of being borderline sabotaged and then blamed for it. He was tired of hurting.
He probably shouldn't be willing it into existence but it was just all so much. He was as overwhelmed as he was tired. He wanted to go home. He didn't really have a home any more.
Fort Lauderdale hadn't felt like home since he was a teenager. Europe had never been home. He'd never really stayed in any one country long enough to put down any roots. He was coming up on the longest time he'd been in any one place since he'd started karting and it was fucking England. Everywhere else never felt like more than a summer. He was proud of being American, but that didn't mean it felt like home. He didn't really belong anymore. He didn't have any where to go.
He could be like other drivers and just vacation in his off time. Well… he could try and be like the others. Things always seemed to get worse when he tried. He could go back and visit his family but he just… It was just like every time he went back he was reminded that everyone else moved on while he was away. He wasn't part of their lives any more. Not in any meaningful way. He felt like a facsimile of a person.
So he stayed in his apartment in England; alone.
There was basically a whole month off between Belgium and the Netherlands. He could do something small, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to do it if he was going to be alone. He had no one to ask. He would much rather sit and wallow in his tiny, silent apartment, than confront that same loneliness when he was supposed to be out having fun. It only made the absence feel all the more apparent.
Besides, the stress of the last year had been all too much. Winter break hadn't really been all that much of a break with his contract nonsense. Honestly, this break was supposed to be much of the same, but his manager had taken one look at him and had told him he would handle it. Logan needed to get as much rest as he possibly could.
He supposed that he must look something awful for his manager to say that.
He'd crashed pretty hard by the time he'd finally gotten back to his spartan apartment.
(He spent most of the year traveling, so he'd never bothered to decorate much. It was too much effort when he'd probably just move soon anyway. He would be moving out at the end of the year if he went with Indycar.)
He had a few sentimental items, but they stayed carefully kept and clean on a table beside his bed. A stuffed Snoopy plush Oscar had got him the time he'd gotten his diagnosis. Some clothes he'd stolen from Oscar and even Fred folded and organized in the drawer. A handful of photos of his favourite moments and some candid polaroids. When he didn't have the energy to get out of bed, he was able to reach them and look; something to distract him.)
It wasn't that long since Hungary and the shit show that came after. He'd recovered enough to race Spa, but that didn't really mean much. Now that the pressures of the race were less, it was like his body had let itself shut down.
He didn't feel as bad as after Hungary. That had been a particularly rough flare up. This one was slower but just as all encompassing. He hadn't bothered to unpack his suitcase after ubering back from the airport. He'd stripped, had probably the quickest shower of his life, and then collapsed into bed. When he'd woken, he'd felt awful. It was like he was on the trail end of a flu or recovering from a hangover. He hadn't wanted to move, and he really hadn't had a reason, so maybe he'd indulged.
It started with his joints.
They went first just like they always did. His knees burned and creaked, and his wrists protested any use of his hands. Shifting at all made his hips pop, and he was entirely too aware of every single bone in his toes. So he'd hobbled around the apartment to get some water and enough quick snacks that he wouldn't be left having to traverse the whole apartment when it got worse.
The next day his muscles had been added to the equation. It was like a series of inescapable deep cramps. Thankfully it didn't stop him from moving, but it certainly didn't encourage any more movement than absolutely necessary. He could take care of himself. Nonetheless, he spent most of his time laying in bed, dreading when he'd have to work out.
He felt weak. His limbs wouldn't stop trembling and it made drinking, eating and generally moving challenging. He wavered when he stood. He'd moved on from glasses to bottles with narrow necks. He didn't really have it in him for cleaning up glass if he dropped it with how he felt. His head was foggy and he couldn't stop shaking.
The warmth of the tea in the mug in his hands burned more than was comfortable, but he knew that it would ultimately do him good. His hands still hurt enough to render them largely nonfunctional.
He frowned, limping his way gingerly toward the front door when he heard a knock, leaving his half finished tea on the table. His grocery delivery wasn't scheduled until a few days later, and he hadn't ordered anything that should be coming in the mail. He carefully pulled the door open, peering through a crack.
"Logan!" Oscar said cheerfully.
Oscar was standing on his doorstep. He had a suitcase sitting beside him and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He had on a baseball cap and soft looking athletic clothes. He wasn't dressed in any McLaren merch, no doubt out of an effort to not attract attention. The neon orange was pretty hard to ignore.
"Oscar," he responded, eyes wide in shock. "What are you… what are you doing here?" His voice was a bit rough and raspy from disuse. He hadn't said anything out loud since he'd gotten back to his flat.
Oscar's smile dimmed slightly at Logan's quiet response, but he didn't let it discourage him too much. "Hey, can I come in?"
Logan's eyebrows furrowed slightly before he felt the twinge of a headache resurfacing and he smoothed his face out. "Of course," he said. He shuffled backward, opening the door further and letting Oscar slip inside.
"How's your break been?" Oscar asked, moving his suitcase out of the way and putting his backpack down. "I hope I'm not interrupting any plans." He toed off his shoes and moved to sit down at the table.
This wasn't the first time that Oscar had been in Logan's apartment. They used to live close to each other before Oscar moved to Monaco. He was always gracious in stepping around talking about how barren Logan's apartment was. He didn't focus on it now either. He knew by now that he was free to move around Logan's apartment as if it was his own. Logan didn't mind. He liked seeing Oscar moving around his space like he belonged. It was domestic.
"No plans," Logan assured him, padding over to join Oscar at the table with his tea. He wrapped his hands around the mug to try and hide the trembling.
He didn't mean to hide his condition from Oscar. Well, he did mean to, but it wasn't malicious or anything. He just didn't want to worry Oscar. He didn't want to ruin the visit if Oscar was only passing through. He hated that so much of their time spent together was with him as such a complete and utter mess.
"Just spending some time resting," Logan said.
"We haven't really been spending as much time together as we used to," Oscar said, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "I guess I didn't really realize it until Hungary."
"Yeah," Logan swallowed thickly. He didn't raise the mug to take a sip. He knew the shaking would be obvious then.
Oscar winced, but to his credit, kept going. "I don't… I don't want us to continue this way. I don't want to lose you."
The corners of Logan's lips twitched upward in a smile. "I don't want to lose you either."
Oscar brightened up. "Good. Great even," he said. "I thought maybe I could bunk with you for the summer? Just us two."
"You don't have any other plans?" Logan asked softly. Oscar vehemently shook his head. "I just don't want you to sacrifice your break plans."
"Logan," Oscar said. "I care for you. I like you. I want to spend time with you. This isn't wasting my summer break, okay?"
Logan knew that Oscar didn't mean it like that. He knew that Oscar didn't return his feelings — couldn't return his feelings. But sometimes Oscar just said things in a way that gave him a glimmer of hope. It sounded so nice. For a second he wanted to let himself dream.
"Okay," Logan said.
"So would you be alright with spending your break with me?"
"Of course," Logan said, maybe a little too quickly. "You know you're always welcome."
"I don't want to encroach on your space," Oscar assured him, reaching out and placing a hand on Logan's wrist and the back of his hand. It was warm. The palm of his hand calloused and firm. It was a familiar solid and reassuring grip; grounding. Logan never wanted him to let go.
Flustered, Logan let go of the mug with the hand Oscar was holding and went to take a sip of his tea. Somehow, he didn't spill the tea. He was hoping Oscar would just put it down to Logan being flustered.
Oscar's face immediately changed. His eyebrows furrowed and the tentative grin that he tended to wear around Logan faded from his face. His eyes were fixed on Logan's hand. "You're trembling," he said softly.
"Oscar—"
"You've been quiet too," he continued over Logan's bluster. "Migraine?"
He winced, carefully putting the mug down. "Not right now," he admitted.
"But earlier," Oscar said; a right dog with a bone, that one. Then again, he knew he had to be because Logan would never willingly divulge his struggles. He didn't know whether to feel touched or wary of how persistent Oscar was.
"But earlier," Logan echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Are you having a flare up?"
He kept silent, but that was as good as a yes.
"Lo," Oscar said, his voice and face softening. He squeezed Logan's wrist. "Do you want me to leave so you can rest?"
"No!" Logan spluttered. "I like having you here. But if you would prefer—"
Oscar cut him off. "You know that I prefer you tell me when you're hurting. You won't tell anyone else, and I want to take care of you."
He shrugged. "I just don't want to be a bother."
"You're never a bother to me," Oscar said firmly. "I know you don't believe me, but I'm going to keep proving it to you." He stood up and moved towards his suitcase. "I'm going to hop into your shower and change out of my airport clothes. You are going to finish your tea. When I'm done, I'm going to make you something warm to eat, and then we'll cuddle in your bed so you can rest."
"Oscar—"
"Ah! No protesting!" Oscar said. "I'm taking care of you and I know for a fact that A. you haven't been eating properly because you hate cooking when you aren't hurting, and B. you love cuddles."
Logan flushed heavily. He scrubbed a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard Oscar puttering around his apartment confidently. Oscar was just like that. He said something and then he made it happen.
"Thank you," Logan said. "You don't have to do this."
"I want to take care of you," Oscar said back, dropping devastating words with far too much ease. "You deserve to be taken care of."
Logan let out a strangled groan, earning himself one of Oscar's bright beautiful laughs.
"Now finish your tea."