Chapter Text
Chapter 4 - After the Impact
Logan woke again a few hours later, this time with more awareness behind his eyes. The room was brighter now, the morning sun higher, the shadows sharper. Oscar had moved only once — long enough to splash cold water on his face and try to steady the tremor in his hands — but he’d returned to the chair before Logan stirred, unwilling to risk missing a second of consciousness.
He hadn’t slept on the flight.
He hadn’t slept in the car.
He hadn’t slept in the hospital chair.
Because for twelve hours, he’d believed Logan might die.
He’d believed it so fiercely, so viscerally, that even now — with Logan breathing in front of him — the fear still clung to his ribs like something physical.
Logan blinked slowly, his gaze drifting across the ceiling before settling on Oscar. His voice was rough, but clearer than before. “You’re still here.”
Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah. How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Logan muttered, then winced — a deep, sharp flinch that rippled through his whole body. “Everything hurts.”
Kyle, who had been sitting on the windowsill scrolling through his phone, stood up. “The doctor said she’d be back soon. They want to run a few more checks.”
Logan’s eyes flicked toward him. “Checks for what?”
Kyle hesitated. Just long enough for Logan to notice.
Before anyone could answer, the door opened, and Dr. Patel stepped inside, clipboard in hand. She was calm, composed, the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller and more serious. Oscar felt his stomach twist — he knew that look. He’d seen it before. It was the kind of look doctors wore when they were about to tell someone the bad news.
“Good morning, Logan,” she said gently. “It’s good to see you awake.”
Logan swallowed. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with me?”
Oscar felt the tension in the room tighten like a wire. Kyle shifted his weight. Colton, who had slipped in quietly behind the doctor, folded his arms across his chest, jaw clenched.
Dr. Patel pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed. “You took a very heavy impact to the left side of your body. You have a moderate traumatic brain injury — a concussion with potential memory gaps. You also have four broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, and a fractured scapula.”
Logan stared at her, expression blank. “My shoulder blade?”
“Yes,” she said gently. “It’s a painful injury, but it will heal.”
Oscar felt his breath stutter. He hadn’t known about the scapula.
Dr. Patel continued, voice steady. “There’s also a pulmonary contusion — bruising on your lung — and a small pneumothorax. We inserted a chest tube last night to help your lung re‑expand.”
Logan blinked, confused. “A… chest tube?”
Oscar’s heart dropped.
He hadn’t known that part either.
Dr. Patel nodded. “You also have severe bruising across your torso and a deep laceration on your hip that required stitches. We’re monitoring for nerve irritation in your left arm.”
“So next year…” he whispered. “What happens now? Am I—”
Oscar cut him off quickly. “Don’t think about that right now.”
Logan’s jaw clenched. “I’m supposed to be ready in five months.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been training all year. I’ve done everything right. I—”
His voice cracked.
Oscar reached out instinctively, hand hovering before he finally let it settle gently on Logan’s forearm. “You’ll get another chance.”
Logan let out a shaky breath. “You don’t know that.”
Oscar’s voice softened. “I do.”
Kyle cleared his throat. “We should give you two a minute.”
Colton nodded. “Yeah. We’ll be outside.”
They slipped out quietly, closing the door behind them. The room felt different immediately — heavier, quieter, more intimate.
Oscar sat back down, hands clasped tightly in his lap. Logan stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, breathing uneven — each inhale shallow, careful, protective of the ribs and lungs that had betrayed him.
Outside, muffled voices rose — reporters, fans, camera shutters. The media had found the hospital hours ago. Kyle and Colton had been fielding calls nonstop. Oscar had seen the headlines on Kyle’s phone:
“Championship Leader Logan Sargeant Hospitalized After Laguna Crash”
“Title Decided by Disaster”
“Sargeant’s Season Ends in Heartbreak”
“Driver in Critical Condition After Laguna Seca Impact”
That last one had made Oscar’s stomach drop.
Because for a moment — a long, terrifying moment — it had been true.
Logan opened his eyes again, turning his head slightly toward Oscar. “They’re out there, aren’t they?”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah. A lot of them.”
“Great,” Logan muttered. “Just what I need. Cameras in my face while I look like I got run over.”
Oscar tried to smile, but it came out strained. “You do look pretty rough.”
Logan huffed. “Thanks.”
Silence settled again — not uncomfortable, but fragile. Like, both of them were afraid to move too quickly.
Finally, Logan spoke. “You really flew all the way here.”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Oscar hesitated. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, too raw to say out loud. “Because I thought—”
He stopped.
Tried again.
“Because I thought I might not get another chance.”
Logan’s eyes softened. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I couldn’t not,” Oscar said quietly. “Not after… everything.”
Logan studied him — really studied him — like he was trying to understand something that had been just out of reach.
“You were scared,” Logan said softly.
Oscar’s breath caught. “Yeah.”
Logan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Me too.”
Oscar looked down at their hands — close, but not touching. He wanted to reach out. He didn’t know if he should.
Logan beat him to it.
He shifted his fingers, brushing against Oscar’s knuckles — a small, tentative touch, but deliberate.
Oscar froze.
Logan didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to stay,” Logan murmured. “But… I want you to.”
Oscar swallowed hard. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Logan exhaled — a shaky, relieved sound — and let his eyes close again.
Outside, the media shouted questions into the cold morning air.
Inside, the room was quiet.
Still.
Safe.
Oscar leaned back in the chair, letting the weight of the moment settle over him.
He wasn’t okay.
Logan wasn’t okay.
None of this was okay.
But they were here.
Together.
And for now, that was enough.
-
Oscar’s phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. He ignored it at first — he’d been ignoring everything that wasn’t Logan — but when it buzzed again, then again, Kyle shot him a look.
“You should check that,” Kyle said quietly. “People are worried.”
Oscar hesitated, then pulled the phone from his pocket. The screen was flooded with notifications — team messages, journalists, Zak, even a few drivers he barely talked to. But one name stood out immediately.
Alex Albon
Oscar’s chest tightened. He opened the message.
Alex:
Hey mate. Just heard about Logan. Do you know anything? Will he be okay?
Another message followed almost immediately.
Alex:
I know you’re probably swamped, but please tell me he’s alive. I can’t get anything concrete from the media.
Oscar swallowed hard. He typed back slowly, fingers trembling.
Oscar:
He’s alive. Quite badly hurt, but alive.
The reply came within seconds.
Alex:
Thank God. I’ve been sick all morning. I saw the crash. It just looked… it looked really horrific.
Oscar closed his eyes. He’d seen the footage too — the violent snap, the plume of dust, the sickening silence afterward.
Another message appeared.
Alex:
Can you tell him I’m thinking about him? And that I’m proud of him? He had an incredible season. He deserved better than this.
Oscar’s throat tightened.
He typed:
Oscar:
I’ll tell him.
A pause. Then:
Alex:
And Oscar… take care of him, yeah? He listens to you more than he listens to anyone else.
Oscar froze.
He stared at the message for a long moment, heart thudding, breath caught somewhere between his ribs.
Kyle, who had been pretending not to watch, raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
“Alex,” Oscar said quietly.
Colton leaned over from the foot of the bed. “Albon?”
Oscar nodded.
Kyle snorted. “Of course he’s checking in. Those two were basically glued together at Williams.”
Oscar didn’t respond. He was still staring at the last message, the words echoing in his head.
He listens to you more than he listens to anyone else.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
He didn’t know what it meant.
He didn’t know why it made his chest feel too full.
Logan stirred slightly in the bed, shifting with a soft groan. Oscar immediately pocketed his phone and moved closer.
Kyle smirked. “See? Alex is right.”
Oscar shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
Colton grinned. “We’re not starting. We’re just observing.”
Oscar ignored them, focusing on Logan — on the way his breathing steadied when Oscar spoke softly, on the way his fingers twitched toward the sound.
He would tell Logan about Alex’s message later.
When he was awake.
When he could handle it.
For now, Oscar just sat beside him, the weight of Alex’s words lingering in the air like something fragile and true.
Oscar waited until Logan was awake again — properly awake, not drifting in and out — before mentioning the messages. He didn’t want to overwhelm him. Logan was propped up slightly, breathing carefully, every movement slow and deliberate. The chest tube tugged at his side with each inhale, and Oscar could see the pain flicker across his face even when he tried to hide it.
Oscar sat beside the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. “Hey,” he said softly. “There’s something I should tell you.”
Logan blinked, tired but curious. “What?”
Oscar hesitated. “People have been messaging. A lot of people.”
Logan frowned. “Like who? The team?”
“Yeah. And… others.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “Others?”
Oscar exhaled slowly. “Alex messaged.”
Logan froze.
For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. His expression softened in a way Oscar hadn’t seen since before the crash — something fragile, something young, something that made Oscar’s chest ache.
“What did he say?” Logan whispered.
Oscar unlocked his phone and read the message aloud, his voice gentle.
“He said he’s been worried sick all morning. He saw the crash and couldn’t get anything concrete from the media. And that he’s proud of you. That you had an incredible season. And that you deserved better.”
Logan’s eyes filled instantly — not tears, not fully, but the shine of someone who’s been holding too much inside for too long. He swallowed hard, jaw trembling.
“He said that?” Logan murmured.
“Yeah,” Oscar said softly. “All of it.”
Logan let out a shaky breath, staring at the blanket. “I haven’t talked to him in months.”
“He still cares,” Oscar said. “A lot.”
Logan nodded slowly, blinking hard. “Yeah. That sounds like Alex.”
Oscar hesitated, then added, “He also said… to take care of you.”
Logan looked up sharply. “He said that to you?”
Oscar nodded.
Logan stared at him for a long moment — something unreadable flickering behind his eyes — before he looked away again, cheeks flushing faintly. “He always was too perceptive.”
Oscar didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.
“Could you check my phone?” Logan asked quietly.
Oscar turned Logan’s phone on. The phone started buzzing immediately. Then again. Then again. Logan raised an eyebrow.
“What now?”
Oscar sighed. “You sure you want to know?”
Logan nodded. “Yeah. Hit me.”
Oscar opened the notifications. “Okay. First one’s from George.”
Logan groaned. “Oh, God.”
Oscar read it aloud.
George:
Mate, I just saw the crash. Please tell me you’re okay. Sending you all the strength in the world. You’re a fighter.
Logan snorted. “He’s so dramatic.”
Oscar smiled. “He means well.”
“Yeah, I know,” Logan muttered. “Tell him I’m alive.”
Oscar typed a quick reply.
Another buzz.
Oscar checked the screen and laughed under his breath. “Lando.”
Logan closed his eyes. “Oh no.”
Oscar read:
Lando:
BRO WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT CRASH? I AGED TEN YEARS. ANSWER YOUR PHONE YOU LITTLE SHIT.
Oscar tried not to laugh. “He sent that at 3 a.m.”
Logan groaned. “Of course he did.”
Another message from Lando popped up immediately.
Lando:
If you’re dead, I’m going to be so mad.
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Should I tell him you’re not dead?”
Logan sighed. “Yeah. Before he flies here and causes a scene.”
Oscar typed back.
Then another notification.
Oscar blinked. “Pato.”
Logan’s eyes widened. “Pato O’Ward?”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”
He opened the message.
Pato:
Hermano, that crash was brutal. I’m thinking of you. If you need anything — anything — I’m here.
Logan let out a slow breath. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“He wanted to,” Oscar said.
Logan nodded, staring at the ceiling again. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think anyone would care this much.”
Oscar’s chest tightened. “Logan. You’re leading the IndyCar championship. You’re not exactly invisible.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Logan whispered.
Oscar knew.
He knew exactly what Logan meant.
Oscar hesitated before opening the last notification. He wasn’t sure how Logan would react. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Logan noticed. “Who’s that?”
Oscar swallowed. “Lewis.”
Logan blinked. “Hamilton?”
Oscar nodded.
Logan stared at him, stunned. “Why the hell is Lewis Hamilton messaging me?”
Oscar opened the message.
Lewis:
I hope you recover quickly. Crashes like that stay with you, but you’re stronger than you think. Take your time. Heal properly. Racing can wait.
Logan looked away, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t think anyone outside IndyCar would even notice.”
Oscar leaned forward, voice soft. “Logan. You scared everyone. Not just here. Not just in the paddock. Everywhere.”
Logan swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” Oscar said. “But they care. There are so many people who care about you.”
Logan didn’t speak for a long moment. His breathing was uneven, careful, protective of the broken ribs and bruised lung. When he finally looked at Oscar again, his voice was barely a whisper.
“Why does it feel like I don’t deserve it?”
Oscar’s heart cracked cleanly in two.
“You do,” he said. “More than you think.”
Logan held his gaze — tired, hurting, vulnerable in a way Oscar had never seen — and whispered, “But still the only person I needed to hear from is you.”
Oscar didn’t breathe.
For a moment, Oscar didn’t understand the words.
Not because they were unclear — Logan had said them softly, but not weakly. Not because he doubted what he heard — the room was too quiet for that. It was because something in him simply refused to process it. His brain stalled, like a car stuck between gears, unable to move forward.
Oscar’s breath caught in his throat.
Not a gasp. Not a choke.
Just a quiet, stunned intake of air that never fully made it back out.
He stared at Logan, waiting for him to take it back.
To laugh.
To say he was drugged.
To say he didn’t mean it.
But Logan didn’t look away.
He lay there, bruised and broken and exhausted, but his eyes were steady — clearer than they had been all morning. There was no confusion in them. No haze. Just a raw, unguarded honesty that made Oscar’s pulse hammer against his ribs.
“Oscar?” Logan whispered, voice thin but steady. “Say something.”
Oscar opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat tightened, the words dissolving before they reached his tongue. He looked down, then back up, as if the answer might be written somewhere on the floor, on the wall, on the monitors.
It wasn’t.
He swallowed hard. “Logan… you just—”
“I know what I said,” Logan murmured. “I meant it.”
Oscar felt the room tilt. Not physically — emotionally. Like the ground he’d been standing on had shifted a few inches to the left without warning.
He leaned back in the chair, fingers gripping the armrests, trying to steady himself. “You’re… you’re still recovering. You’re in pain. You’re overwhelmed.”
Logan’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “I’m injured, not delusional.”
Oscar’s heart stuttered.
Logan continued, voice softer now, almost fragile. “When I woke up last night… the first thing I saw was you. And I felt—” He paused, searching for the right word. “Safe.”
Oscar’s breath hitched. “Logan…”
“And this morning,” Logan whispered, “when you told me I didn’t lose everything… it mattered. More than anything anyone else said.”
Oscar shook his head, overwhelmed. “You’re surrounded by people who care about you. Kyle. Colton. Alex. Half the F1 grid. Why would—”
“Because it’s you,” Logan said simply.
Oscar froze.
Logan’s eyes softened, the exhaustion in them making the honesty even sharper. “You flew across the world because you thought I might die.”
Oscar’s chest tightened painfully. “Of course I did.”
“That’s not nothing,” Logan whispered. “Not to me.”
Oscar looked away, blinking hard. His vision blurred for a moment. The sting of emotion he’d been holding back since the moment he saw the crash replay.
He exhaled shakily. “I didn’t come here because I had to.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t come because the team asked me to.”
“I know.”
“I came because—”
He stopped.
The words hovered on the edge of his tongue, too heavy, too dangerous, too real.
Logan watched him, breathing shallowly, waiting.
Oscar swallowed. “I came because I couldn’t bear the thought of you being alone.”
Logan’s eyes softened. “That’s enough.”
Oscar shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It is to me.”
Oscar looked at him — really looked — at the bruises, the bandages, the chest tube, the pain etched into every line of his body. And beneath all of that, the quiet, steady trust in his eyes.
Something inside Oscar cracked open.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice barely above a whisper. “You scared me.”
Logan’s expression softened. “I scared myself.”
Oscar let out a shaky breath. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
Logan’s fingers twitched — a small, instinctive movement toward Oscar’s hand. Oscar hesitated only a second before reaching out, letting their fingers brush, then settling together.
Logan exhaled, a soft, relieved sound. “You didn’t.”
Oscar closed his eyes. “I know.”
When he opened them again, Logan was still watching him — tired, hurting, but alive. And for the first time since the crash, Oscar felt something loosen in his chest. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough.
Logan squeezed his hand — weak, but deliberate. “Stay with me?”
Oscar nodded, voice steady for the first time all day. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he meant it.