Title: Я тебя люблю (I love you)
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x male! Russian! reader
Warnings: possibly bad Russian (I just used Google translate), abusive parents, angst, broken English wrote horribly, bad writing, age not specified, lost the plot halfway through writing
Requested? Nuh-uh
The first time you uttered the words "Я тебя люблю" to Oscar, it was post-race when you had to leave and go back home. Oscar's adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him exhausted and tired. He looked up at you from where he was sitting as you approached (bottom eyes in full effect).
You were dressed in your regular all black attire, with an exception for your ushanka, which was a navy green. "Good job," you ___, your accent thick and unmistakable as you ruffled his hair in a playful manner.
He shoved your hand away in feigned annoyance. "Thanks," he whispered, quieter than he meant to, but he was out of breath, so you didn't think comment on it. "I saw you from up there. The podium, I mean."
"You look for me when up there?" you teased, your broken English rough compared to how Oscar talked.
"Are you heading out?" he asked, gesturing to the backpack slung over your shoulder
"Da. Yes. My mama, err..." you hesitated, searching for a word that wasn't coming to mind.
"Wants you home?" Oscar guessed.
"Yes. There is word. I forget. Nevermind. Does not matter. I need leave."
"Okay. Text me when you get home, okay?" he insisted.
"Yes. Я тебя люблю," you said before your brain could catch up to stop the words.
You speaking in your native language was like music to Oscar's ears. He loved whenever you spoke in Russian. "What's that mean?" he asked, his lips quickly spreading into a smile.
"Do not worry," you spoke softly. "I see you later. Bye, Oscar."
And from then on "Я тебя люблю" was the most common phrase you said to him.
After you first told Oscar "Я тебя люблю", he spent almost two hours on his phone trying to figure out what it meant. When he finally found what it meant, he didn't say anything to you. He knew that you'd tell him for real, in English, when you were ready.
The truth was, Oscar had liked you for years, ever since you two had met at a post-race party. The moment you first spoke to him, it gave him goosebumps. Your voice was deep and accent thick, and oddly enough, it turned him on. By the end of the night, of which you two spent on the balcony just talking about anything and everything, you two had exchanged numbers, and Oscar had successfully hidden the bulge in his pants. He jerked off thinking about you when he got home.
After that, you two were inseparable. He got you paddock passes and flight tickets for you for all the races you could come make. He adapted to your patterns, your silences, your damage. He quickly found the bruises on your skin were your father's handiwork. He found that you didn't like people and you barely talked, unless you were around him, then you could easily be mistaken for a dreaded extrovert. You tried to teach him Russian but he never learned much beyond Da and Nyet.
You took longer to catch feelings but you certainly fell harder. Every point of contact, every twitch of his lips, even just his voice gave you butterflies. You were in denial for weeks about your strong feelings. But, alas, you realized, you were most definitely in love.
So you two hid your love from each other. Until one night.
Oscar's phone rang on his nightstand at 2:47 a.m. He groggily picked it up and had to blink a few times before his eyes unblurred and he could clearly see "Y/NNNN 😘😘" plastered across his screen. He picked up immediately after seeing your name. "Hello?"
On the other end of the line, your voice was too rushed to be anything but fear. "-Отец, он слышал, он знает, я не смог этого сделать—" Your voice cracked. Something glass shattered in the background.
"Hey, hey," Oscar sat up, fully awake now, "Slow down, English, y/n, please."
There was a yell in the background on the other end, then silence, then a choked out, "come, please, Oscar."
Oscar was already pulling his jeans on, phone wedged between his cheek and his shoulder. "Alright, I'm coming, okay? Don't hang up."
He drove too fast. He could get there in 20 minutes with good traffic, but he got there in 12. All he heard on the other line was shaky breathing.
When he got there, you were sitting on the porch, knees pulled to your chest. Your ushanka was resting atop your head like usual and you were dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. When you saw his car, you immediately got up and rushed over to his car and got in the passenger seat. You didn't bother with a seatbelt.
Oscar didn't know where he was going, he just started driving. It seemed like you would rather be anywhere but your house, and he was also desperate to get you away from there. After driving a few blocks, he broke the silence, "Somewhere in specific?"
"Your house," you whispered.
Oscar obliged and you just looked out the window the whole way there. Unbeknownst to you, his eyes flickered over to you every few seconds. Once he pulled into the garage, he brought inside.
You sat on the edge of his bed, clearly still shaken up. Oscar approached slowly, as not to scare you. He sat down beside you. "Wanna talk about it?" he asked quietly.
You shook your head. It was silent for a while. "Oscar...?"
"Yes?" his head perked up immediately, eyes on you.
Your eyes stayed fixated on the ground. You hesitated. "That night. After podium. When I leave."
Oscar went still. "I remember."
"I say..." Your throat worked. "I say Я тебя люблю."
"I know."
"No. You do not—" You looked at him, frustrated, searching his face. "You never ask. Never translate. I think you forget, or you do not care, or—"
"I looked it up," Oscar said quietly. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. I've been waiting. Waiting for you to say it again. In English. Where you couldn't hide behind the words being pretty."
"I was scared," Your voice was shaky and your eyes watered. "If I say in English, you hear me. Really hear me. And then you leave. Like everyone."
"I'm not leaving." Oscar pulled you into his chest and pressed his nose into your hair. "I've been sitting in the paddock for two years watching you watch me from the crowd. I've got flight receipts for like fifty different countries in my email just to see you for twenty minutes after the race. I'm not leaving because you finally told me what I already knew."
You pulled back just enough to see his face, searching for any lie, but finding none.
"Can you say it again?" he whispered. "Please."
Your mouth opened, closed. Your accent was thicker when you were exhausted. "Я..." you started, then shook your head and started over. "I love you, Oscar."
Oscar leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then— giving you plenty of time to pull away —your mouth. You tasted like salt and relief.
You melted into the kiss. You were much more passionate than Oscar expected, but, alas, it's years of pent-up emotions finally being released in this kiss. You pushed him backwards on his bed and he let out a small squeak into your mouth.
You broke apart. "Take your shirt off," you breathed out.
"Of course, anything for you."
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