Another goddamn meeting.

In the entire length of my whole career - from karting days to making my own name in Formula One - this must be the most historically exhausting season in terms of how many meetings I've had with the FIA.

The FIA representatives are already there when we arrive, ready to dive into hours of argument. On the other side of the table sits the host country's delegation. Zak and Andrea take the seats between me and Oscar, making us look like teenagers accompanied by their legal guardians.

The conversation starts the same way it always does with boring and shallow commitment, vague promises about making the world a better place. I stop listening for a moment and look down at my hands instead, wishing I could go back to days when racing was my only concern and none of those political bullshits got interference in my way.

Then the word "same-sex relationship" enters the room, spoken politely like it's something fragile that might break when someone calls it out too loud. The host representative clears his throat, "The issue isn't your professionalism nor your performance. It's the visibility and public acknowledgement."

Zak leans forward to argue, "Visibility isn't a breach of regulation. Could you mind showing me which part of Formula One law defines visibility as a violation?"

"No. But it does introduce sensitivities that cannot be controlled. The environment cannot be shaped to guarantee the outcome."

I don't like the way he phrases it - as if harm is merely an unfortunate byproduct of poor planning. As if our safety is not a single bit of their responsibility.

The FIA steps in to remind UAE delegation of obligations and the message it sends when participation is denied without cause because saying we are not issuing your entrance because you are gay is not acceptable. At least not for those who have faces to keep.

For a moment, it almost feels like winning when the delegate says "We are preparing to issue clearance on your arrival" then asks us to hand over our passports.

"But, there's one condition."

There's always a "but", as Oscar said before. A document is slid across the table, thicker than the fax, written in formal language. Never a good sign.

"The host country acknowledges the participation of the listed individuals and confirms the issuance of entrance arrival. However, due to factors beyond reasonable control, the host country United Arab Emirates cannot guarantee the personal safety of the individuals during the event period."

They don't even try to pretend subtlety. "Cannot guarantee personal safety" – like it is a weather pattern, unpredictable and inconvenient, rather than something provided by choice.

Zak's jaw tightens, a sign to let me know he's not taking this so well. Besides me, Andrea's hands are curled in a fish but then loosen up almost immediately.

"So you allow them in but absolve yourselves of responsibility for whatever happens next." – Zak speaks up from this side of the table.

The delegate nods and it takes everything in me not to laugh at his explanation, "We are being transparent here."

The FIA representative shifts in his chair. "From a procedural standpoint, this satisfies entry requirements. Lando and Oscar are able to participate in the race next weekend."

"And from a human one?", I snarl back before I realize how stupid that is.

The document lies silently between us, heavier than any contract I've ever signed. Finally we got what we came here for, but at what cost? Oscar reaches over to the pen on the table, toying it between his fingers, eyes moving between faces in the room. "If this is signed, what happens if something goes wrong?"

"Then it becomes McLaren's fault for not protecting you well enough and none of them has to pay a single dime. They'll sleep like a baby at night despite knowing the world lost talented drivers who are simply in love."

Andrea mocks at the meaning hidden behinds those addition regulations. Neither the country nor FIA change the rule, they just made sure the rules are no longer our safe place to run to.

Zak stands up, announces loudly as he gestures for all of us to do the same thing. "We are not going to sign any of this bullshit". He quickly grabs our passports on the table then ushers us toward the door, leaving no time for those highly respected guys to react.

***

It should be one of those nights where I get to spend the evening with Oscar holding me in his arms while scrolling through social media aimlessly.

It feels good, really does, until I see a post with pictures of me and Oscar standing close to each other, a red cross drawn over both of our figure. The caption is long and too complicated for me to understand, written in a strange language I don't recognize. Against my better judgement, I press on auto translate though knowing that action is as cruel as pressing on a purple bruise just to confirm if it still hurts.

None of the information is vague and that's what gets me. There's no abstract hatred, no general outrage floating safely in the distance. These are sentences shaped like plans and detailed instruction. My inbox is full of death threats both written in English and foreign languages. If only they knew I am a monolingual.

My hands go cold. My attempt of turning the phone off doesn't go well because the coldness has already spread out, my fingers stiff around my phone, unable to move my eye somewhere else. Oscar notices the way my body goes limp almost immediately, takes the phone out of my hands and locks the screen without needing to read what pops up on it.

"Breathe babe. I am here right next to you. I'm not going anywhere."

His sweet-nothing actually calms me down and I drift off to sleep in his arm.

The next morning, we arrive at MTC only to have Zak and Andrea confiscate my phone in the most official way possible. No matter how many times I've claimed that I am fine and there are plenty of games I need to play daily on that phone, they still wouldn't give it back. They don't make a show out of it or lecture me about mental health, just simply tell me to trust them.

A new phone is placed in my hands, still looks identical from the outside. No social media app is downloaded, only WhatsApp with some important numbers I've saved up in my SIM card.

"I don't want this one, at least give me an Apple", I pout like a baby, still want to get my old phone back.

"It's fine. You don't need to see any of it. I'll read you a story before bedtime yeah?"

Oscar lightly promises me a random thing but then in that moment I realize that Oscar has already been seeing those threats longer than I have, absorbing it quietly, choosing what burden to carry all by himself and what to share with me. There's something so unfair about how steady he is, how practiced his calm feels next to my sudden nausea. What did I do to deserve a man like him?

Andrea stands on the other side of the room and starts the discussion by stating their intention clearly before we need to ask anything. "This isn't about managing optics anymore. The team prioritizes drivers and we are doing everything to make sure you both get through the next weekend without something irreversible happening."

I truly never think much of it, the thought that I might get hurt for being in love with someone never meant to cross my mind. Not even once. But I should have been in awe of the world I'm living in, that not every place is filled with love and support.

"The extra safety clause changes everything. It grants permission without responsibility and that's the real danger. If anything bad should happen to you, none of us would be able to recover from that kind of experience."

We don't really need Zak to interpret the hidden meaning behind those unsigned documents but he does it anyway, as a way to remind us how messed up our situation is. Andrea picks up where Zak leaves off. "Abu Dhabi decides the Drivers' Championship. Everyone knows that. Which means the spotlight is already too bright, too unforgiving. You have pressure coming from every possible direction at once now."

I swallow hard, the word "championship" lands like a shiny prize we don't know how to put our hands on, no matter how well we drive. No matter how many sacrifices we have made along the way.

"So are we just gonna pull out from this race?" – Oscar asks, eyes fixed on our hands intertwined under the table.

"No. Not unless we have to." – Zak answers first then Andrea chimes in, how perfect of the leaders they are – "But we prepare if we might."

"And the title?"

"Secondary."

Secondary – like it's obvious and has always been presented. As if it's not the most prestigious championship we've spent our entire life dreaming of. The disappointment can't be hidden on my face makes Zak finds the need to say his few last words before waving us off.

"Being in love with someone isn't reckless. It's difficult but it doesn't mean wrong. Just – trust us in this. Give it some faith huh?"

I nod, because I don't even trust myself with talking at this point. I've never been this terrified, I think. Will there still be space for me and Oscar in this sport if we're forced to walk away from one third of the race in each season?