Chapter Text
The house finished becoming itself just as Oscar finished dressing.
Downstairs, the music swelled - not loud, not yet - a low, anticipatory hum that threaded through the walls. Laughter followed, bright and unguarded. The kind that belonged to a room already full of people who wanted to be there.
Oscar stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary.
It was the same one he’d worn at the gala two weeks ago. The suit sat easily on him, tailored clean through the waist and shoulders, nothing sharp or restrictive about it. He adjusted his bow tie, then let his hands fall. The man looking back at him didn’t seem braced. Didn’t look like he was waiting for impact.
He looked… present.
Downstairs, someone laughed loudly. Oscar smiled to himself and headed down.
The living room had transformed into something unreal within the past hour.
Candles lined every available surface, their reflections multiplying in the tall windows until the room glowed gold. Fairy lights looped across the ceiling in lazy arcs, softening the corners of the space. The fire crackled steadily, freshly stacked logs beside it promising endurance.
A bar had appeared where the bookcase usually lived, bottles arranged with reverence. Ice chimed softly in metal buckets. Someone had draped a velvet runner over the piano.
Lando stood near the fireplace, jacket open, sleeves already pushed up. He was mid-conversation with Cisca, herself dressed in a sparkling evening gown. Lando was animated, hands moving as he spoke - and when he noticed Oscar, he paused.
For just a second.
Then he grinned.
“Look at you,” he said, stepping closer. “Very respectable. Very misleading.”
Oscar arched a brow. “I’m always respectable.”
Lando snorted. “Liar.”
Before Oscar could reply, the doorbell rang - sharp, cutting cleanly through the noise.
Max Fewtrell barreled in, cold air following him like an entourage.
“Mate,” Max announced loudly, shrugging off his coat, “if I see one more aggressively festive aunt, I’m filing for asylum.”
Lando stared at him, jaw dropped. “You’re meant to be in Brazil.”
“Was,” Max corrected. “Just got back. Girlfriend’s family. Couldn’t bear it. Over three years together and I don’t speak a lick of Portuguese, I think they’re onto me. Plus had to accompany these two, make sure they don’t fall in the pond. Again.”
An older couple who could only be his parents followed more sedately, his mother swatted his arm and was swept up in an embrace by Cisca.
“And you chose this mad house over that?” Lando asked.
Max gestured vaguely. “Missed the suffering. It keeps me grounded.”
They hugged, the kind that spoke of years and shared chaos.
Then Max’s gaze slid past Lando - and stopped.
“No way,” he said slowly. “Is that… Oscar Piastri?”
Oscar smiled tentatively.
Max’s eyebrows shot up and he spun around to Lando again. “Mate. Where are we here? Am I missing a memo? Did you finally reach emotional maturity?”
Lando smirked, stepping closer. “Relax. Everyone’s cool. No drama. Any more.”
Max paused, clearly processing. “If Zak Brown shows up next, I’m getting straight on the next flight to Rio.”
Oscar laughed.
Max turned to Oscar, shaking his head in disbelief. “You? Here? Not in orange, not plotting something fiendish… just… existing. I didn’t see that coming.”
Oscar shrugged, a little self-conscious. “Thought I’d try normal.”
Max grinned. “Bold move. I like it. Very brave. Though, I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly.”
Lando chuckled. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”
Champagne appeared seamlessly - flutes pressed into hands, bubbles catching the candlelight. As more guests arrived, the house filled in layers: voices overlapping, coats piling up, warmth thickening the air.
The house glittered with fairy lights and spilled laughter, and Oscar felt that old pull to shrink into the edges, to be the quiet extra in someone else’s celebration.
Instead, he found himself pulled into conversations, introduced to cousins and friends and friends-of-friends. Everywhere he went, the mood was the same: ease. No edge. No expectation. He appreciated Max’s effortless banter about Lando replacing him, the gentle teasing, and the way he made an effort to include him.
Dinner was long and generous.
They sat shoulder to shoulder at the enormous table, plates passed and refilled, wine poured freely. Oscar listened more than he spoke, soaking it in - the way Lando leaned toward his mum when she laughed, and cut Uncle Rog’s dinner into small bites, the way Adam told stories with his hands just like his son, the way Nana Norris winked conspiratorially at him before stealing another roast potato from her husband’s plate.
He laughed loudly when a beef wellington was placed before him and snapped a photo, Lando looking puzzled across the table as he dug in, grinning to himself.
After dessert, the shift was seamless. Tables cleared, chairs moved. A band settled in the corner and eased into something slow and swinging - upright bass humming, piano keys gliding.
The house became a ballroom.
Oscar danced with Flo first, her laughter bright as she spun under his arm. She teased him and insisted he report to the stables at 6am the following morning for proper lessons and more heart to hearts. Then he danced with Cisca, who insisted on leading and did so with gleeful determination. He danced with Nana, who whispered scandalous encouragement and laughed until Pop pretended to be offended.
At some point, Lando’s less-beloved mates arrived - loud, careless, trailing old dynamics behind them. Oscar watched Lando clock them, saw the instinctive tension.
They spilled into the room like they owned it, voices rising over the music, coats dropped on chairs without care. Oscar felt that familiar knot tighten in his stomach.
One of Vince’s friends leaned toward Lando, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nice place, Lando. Big crowd tonight, huh?”
Vince’s eyes lingered on Oscar and Max as they flanked Lando, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Interesting lineup tonight. Didn’t think you’d still be keeping the old gang around with the new, Lando.” He let it hang there for a beat, the glance toward Max suggesting everything without saying it outright. “Not everyone keeps their… depth, I guess.”
“Not funny.” Oscar said, voice low but steady. Everyone felt the weight behind it.
Vince shrugged, smirk fading slightly. “Relax, it’s all in good fun.”
Lando straightened, calm but firm. “I invited who I wanted. If that’s a problem, there’s a bar-or a door.”
Cisca appeared then, slipping effortlessly through the crowd with that quiet authority that never needed volume. She gave Vince a polite, tight smile. “Vincent, darling,” she said, echoing Lando’s tone, smooth and measured, “I’m afraid you’re a bit late! Your dear mother’s already gone home. You should catch her up-she was in quite the state.”
Vince smiled tightly at her and she swept him away to collect his coat.
The room shifted in an instant. Conversation hummed back to life, laughter threading through without tension.
Max and Lando were having a hushed conversation, Oscar met his eye and raised an eyebrow, a trace of uncertainty passing through him. Lando smiled and gave him a thumbs up, he mouthed a thank you, diffusing the tension that sat on Oscar’s shoulders.
Oscar found himself smiling without thought, feeling the room breathe differently around him. Someone handed him a drink. Someone thanked him for helping earlier. Tiny gestures—but they were everything. It still wasn’t his celebration. Not really. But for the first time, he wasn’t just watching it happen.
Later, he found Cisca near the edge of the room, watching the dance floor with contented pride.
He brought her a champagne flute and cheersed her. “Thank you,” Oscar said quietly. “For having me. And everything else. Being my fairy godmother these past couple of days. But mostly for getting rid of Vince”
She smiled at him, eyes warm and sparkling with that familiar mischief. “Ah he’s always been a nasty piece of work. The pair of you had it under control, I just wanted him out immediately. Bad vibes. I like you much better for my boy.”
She glanced over at Lando, who was engaged in a drunken dance off with Max and his sisters, his laughter ringing out across the room.
“Our Max is a lovely friend for Lando too but he doesn’t challenge him. I like that about you, he has a lot to learn from you. No more fighting though if you can help it, keep that on the track.”
Oscar smiled sheepishly at her, his cheeks flushed.
“And Oscar, you were always welcome,” she said with that smooth, authoritative tone, like it was a non-negotiable truth. “You just needed to see it.”
Near midnight, someone produced Christmas crackers with filthy jokes, useless plastic toys and paper crowns - flimsy, gold, ridiculous. They were distributed liberally, laughter following.
After a particularly strenuous battle pulling crackers with an unbelievably strong toddler, Oscar wandered to the window to catch his breath, champagne in hand, and caught his reflection.
Relaxed. Suit rumpled just enough. Evidence of a long night spent enjoying himself without tugging at his jacket. Atop his head, his paper Crown sat askew.
He turned back to the crowd and across the room, Lando met his gaze - also crowned, also glowing. Oscar lifted his glass in salute. Lando raised his in return, laughing.
The champagne tasted bright and full.
Like ambition. Like excitement. Like something opening instead of closing.
Eventually, the night softened. Music lowered. Conversations drifted. Guests peeled off home, and family made their way toward bedrooms and couches.
To Oscar’s delight, and Max’s abashed apologies, Max’s parents, spectacularly drunk, were escorted by Oscar and their son into the spare end room amid much protest and declarations of love. Max had collapsed into a futon at the end of their bed, mumbling a weak goodnight as the parents giggled away and tucked themselves in.
Oscar gently closed their door and stood in the hallway smiling, delightfully tipsy, and very tired, jacket over his arm, shoes long kicked off.
The hallway had settled into that late-night stillness - the kind that came only after a house had been properly lived in. Music murmured faintly from downstairs, the last notes stretching lazily before dissolving into silence. Somewhere, a door creaked. Someone laughed softly, already half-asleep.
Oscar crept back down the hall to his bedroom. The night clung to him - champagne, smoke from the fire, warmth.
Lando appeared on the landing, loosening his bowtie as he went.
“I just spent the past half hour attempting to put Uncle Rog to bed, gave up and left him at the piano, so apologies in advance for the lullabies,” he said to Oscar, lazy smile on his face.
He paused outside his room, fingers tugging absently at the knot on his tie. “Good night,” he said easy, unguarded. “Thanks for… staying.”
Oscar nodded. “Thanks for having me.”
It was simple. It didn’t need to be more.
As Lando turned into his bedroom, Oscar’s gaze drifted - not intrusively, not deliberately - and caught the inside of the room through the open door.
A bed half-made, sheets kicked loose. Clothes draped over the back of a chair like they’d been dropped there mid-thought. A shelf crowded with books, some dog-eared, others stacked horizontally because they didn’t fit properly. Old posters pinned unevenly to the wall - karting photos, faded edges, reminders of a boy who’d grown up here long before the world decided who he was meant to be. It looked just like his own bedroom.
Oscar thought of the stories from earlier - the burned hot chocolate, the stray pets from over the years. The way Flo had spoken about him not as a champion, but as a child who’d always wanted to be liked.
For the first time, the image in Oscar’s head shifted fully into place.
Not rival. Not benchmark. Not obstacle.
Just a person - shaped by this house, these rooms, these people. Someone who had carried expectations into adulthood the same way Oscar had, only in a different shape.
Lando caught him looking, hesitated - then didn’t close the door.
Not an invitation.
An acceptance.
A quiet acknowledgement that there was nothing to hide.
“See you in the morning,” Lando said.
“Yeah,” Oscar replied. “Merry Christmas.”
Lando stepped inside and pushed the door mostly closed - not all the way, just enough - and Oscar stood there for a moment longer, letting the image settle.
When Oscar entered his room, he didn’t turn the light on straight away.
He stood in the doorway, listening to the house breathe - the piano tinkling away, a distant laugh fading, the low hum of warmth moving through the walls. It felt inhabited in a way his apartment or any of the hotels he stayed in never did. Lived-in. Remembering.
He thought of Cisca pressing a mug into his hands that morning, insisting he eat. Of Nana pulling him into stories like he’d always belonged in them. Of Adam clapping his shoulder with easy familiarity. Of Flo dragging him onto the dance floor without hesitation. Of Lando standing up for him without spectacle or apology.
No one had been weighing him. No one had been measuring his worth against lap times or trophies. They’d simply… made space. Seen him, not as a guest or a rival or a season that went wrong - but as a person who was tired, and young, and trying.
Oscar sat on the edge of the bed and let the weight of that sink in.
All this time, he’d been so careful. Holding himself tight, controlled, convinced that if he stayed composed enough, quiet enough, no one would see the fracture lines.
But they had.
And they’d stayed anyway.
Down the hall, a door clicked softly shut. Somewhere, someone moved, the sound familiar now. Oscar lay back against the pillows, suit jacket draped over the chair, paper crown abandoned on the bedside table.
He stared up at the ceiling, a small smile tugging at his mouth.