Chapter Text
October 17th 2024
Everything about Austin is suffocating from the moment the wheels hit the tarmac. As they step down, he can feel Mark’s eyes lingering on him as they walk toward the car.
“Remember, head down and focus on racing.”
Oscar nods, staring out the window knowing what's to come. Meetings and media. Everyone and their mother breathing down his neck. Waiting to hear what he has to say. He knows what he wants to say.
Fuck McLaren.
Fuck Zac Brown.
Fuck the color Papaya.
But he won’t. He will be composed, neutral, and efficient. The quiet Oscar Piastri that everyone knows and loves. He won’t comment on it. He will continue as normal as if he already knows where he’ll be spending next season. He can fake it till he makes it.
-
Oscar keeps his head pressed to the window of the car on the way to the track the next morning. He doesn’t think of whatever pr hellscape is waiting for him. Instead, he focuses on the stretch of his lungs.
Expand.
Contract.
Repeat.
The closer they get, the more crowds appear, throngs of people waiting with bated breath for drivers and the likes to appear. Mark lounges next to him, his sunglasses on blocking any view from what his eyes may be saying. His pass is dangling from his neck, swishing ever so slightly from the sway of the suspension. Thumbs typing rapidly back and forth on his phone. Oscar thinks to ask who he’s texting, probably Seb. Maybe another team, so he bites his tongue, not wanting the driver to report back anything he might say to the team.
The car slowly pulls to a stop. “Thanks.” He yanks the car door open, wanting to rip the band-aid off as quickly as possible. No pep talk is going to help deal with this mess. Mark’s composure is much better, a smooth glide out the car door while he grabs his bag from the floor. Oscar is all awkward limbs and manic movements. He pushes his cap down a little lower as the noise increases as people spot them.
“Let’s get this show on the road.”
The sound of the cameras and people shouting at them nearly deafens his ears from anything they are saying.
“Are you seriously smiling right now?” Oscar asks in horror as the Austin sun beams off Mark’s glasses. Nodding and smiles at the cameras. They must look like a funny picture, Mark appearing like it was another race weekend. While Oscar probably looked like he was emotionally constipated.
“I’m not worried.”
“Seriously?”
“You’re gonna be okay, and in the meantime we.” The older Aussie gestures between the two of them. “Are gonna make ‘em regret their choices.”
Regretting their choices began as soon as they passed through the doors into the air-conditioned space of hospitality. There were already people looking their way before he could adjust to the lighting change.
“There you are, Oscar.” Sophia, his press officer, appeared. A wide smile on her face, but her eyes looked weary. “We have some things to go over before the media starts. If you can follow me?”
“Course.” Both of them begin following her. She turns awkwardly back to them.
“Oh, apologies, Mr. Webber, but this is a team-only meeting.”
Mark tilts his head towards her, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose. His gaze darkens slightly, clearly annoyed by the suggestion.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We just need Oscar shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”
Clearly, Sophia loves her job as she has the audacity to smile at both of them with an easy grin. No doubt she was given strict orders to make sure Oscar went up there.
He glances at Mark, who frowns. “Go ahead, kid; I have plenty to occupy my time.”
They have to pick and choose their battles. Fighting for a spot at this meeting wasn’t worth the time. Not when they had bigger issues at hand.
Oscar nods; Sophia leads the way towards one of the conference rooms. He keeps his back straight, eyes ahead, trying to appear as neutral as possible. Frustration is already creeping up on him. Wishing this season was already over. People glance as they walk by, curious and nosy; he can feel their eyes. His neck itches. Like they’re waiting for him to lose his mind. He won’t give them the benefit of a meltdown.
The room isn’t packed like normal. Usually there’d be him, Lando, and a collection of press plus upper management around the table. Telling them what they can and can’t say, or well, what Oscar can and can’t say. Lando was always kept on a longer leash. He had thought it was because he had been with the team for so long. But really it was just the perk of being the favorite. Instead, it’s just him, some of the press team, Stella, and Zak.
Oscar regrets not demanding Mark be in here the second Sophia shuts the door behind them. His heart rate picks up.
“Oscar, good for you to join us!” Zak is all smiles as he sips his coffee. As if he hadn’t bombed Oscar’s career two weekends ago.
“Morning, everyone.” He settles in the chair closest to the door; his leg bounces rapidly.
“Thanks for joining us, Oscar. We just have a few points to go over before any of us speak to the media.”
Rustle of paper and a small packet gets handed off to him. Talking points for Exit. Another thing that must have been planned weeks ago. He flips through it. It’s all standard bullshit. Mutually beneficial. Amicable separation. Both sides wish each other the best.
All cookie-cutter PR statements, contractually protecting statements. Perfect to them and anyone who'd rather not look at what’s happened beyond the currents. To dig a little deeper and move the curtain back. He lets his head nod along to whatever they’re saying. Just keeping his head down, swallowing all the thoughts he really has on this.
“So that’s it?” His mouth gets the better of him this time, unable to stop the words before they come out.
The noise in the room is sharply cut to silence. All heads snap to him like he had said there was a bomb in the room.
“What do you mean?”
The press officer who’s been talking tilts her head at him. He can’t even think of his name at the moment.
Something in him snaps a little. “Seriously, this is it. All this meeting is for? No explanation for me.” He looks towards Zak and Stella. “We were about to sign a contract, and then suddenly I’m not good enough and what? For once, neither of you have anything to say.”
The air in the room drops a degree or two. Stella looks away from him; Oscar knows if he looked in his eyes he’d see regret. Lando was Zak’s driver, but Oscar was always Stella’s. Zak rolls his shoulders, trying to appear larger, if fails to achieve the effect he wants.
“Oscar, listen, this sport moves fast. We decided to go in another direction.”
Oscar bristles; the tone is condescending. Like he’s being told off by a teacher in school.
“This sport may move fast, Zak, but you'd rather use the speed to excuse your shit job at managing this team. If you had the real balls of a CEO, you would have told me you were going in a different direction.”
The room shifts; some people gape, some look away. He’s pushing the limits of what’s allowed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. What do you want? This to be a new era of McLaren? By what? Turning this into a cheap knock-off of Red Bull? So you can be a Shein version of Christian Horner?”
His heart is in his ears as he leans back in the chair. Attempting to look as nonchalant as physically possible. His voice is chilled, almost mocking even.
“It’s just business. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Just like I don’t see that all the talk of two number one drivers was bull shit, huh?”
There’s a pause that deafens his ears. Zak seemed to turn a fresh shade of red, fists settled on the table. He squeezes them once and twice.
“We will always stand by the fact we do not pick a number one driver-”
“But funny how I’m the one sitting here and not Lando.”
“Oscar.” Stella cuts in. His voice rings in his ears. “We will continue to support you on the pit wall for the rest of the season.”
“So you can win the Constructors Title, isn’t that right? Not going to risk putting Pato or Ryo in now and failing to hit the mark? Can’t have Red Bull winning both again, can we?” Oscar smirks. The fight for the Constructors is the only thing that's probably keeping them from flat-out dropping him altogether right now.
“Correct. And you are still contracted by us until after Abu Dhabi.”
“Fine, I will race. You’ll get your trophy, but I’m not commenting on this at all.” He slides the paperwork back to the center of the table. “You have plenty of people on this payroll who can spew this shit. I won’t.”
He stands, not bothering to look at anyone. He itches to apologize to the press team, but he reminds himself they’re active participants in this. They drew this shit up and handed it off with a smile.
He’s shooting himself in the foot, surely. They’re only going to do enough for him these last few races to win the WCC. And so much for keeping his head down. Clarity crashes on him like an ice bath. He’s made everything even more of a mess.
Oscar rushes through the hospitality as quickly as he can without causing too much of a scene. Hard to do, honestly, when everyone is watching him like a hawk. But he manages to have some semblance of normalcy as he grabs the handle to his driver's room with shaking hands.
He shuts it and locks it quickly, pressing his back to it. He tries to catch his breath but can’t seem to grasp it properly. Each inhale is short, wheezing like he’s gotten something stuck in his throat. The exhales aren’t much better, shaking and heavy on his chest. The pressure in the room seems to increase tenfold. His knees buckle under his own weight. He presses his hands to his knees, trying to find some sense of reality. Praying Lando isn’t in his driver's room right now. The last thing he needs is Lando seeing him having a panic attack.
His mind replays the last hour, rethinking every decision he made in the conference room. How his anger had gotten the better of him in the moment. Seeing how willing they were to carelessly toss him to the side. The look on Zak’s face in the beginning, how he thought Oscar would just roll over and let them push him around. He didn’t want to tell Mark, not knowing if he'd be angered by the reaction or worse be excited that his protege lashed out.
His vision blurred with tears as he crawled from the door towards the small couch in the room. He climbed onto it like a child and pressed his face into the cushions to feel something other than the panic. It scratched his face, but he welcomed the sensation; it felt comforting. A reminder of where he was. What he was meant to be doing. Eventually he let out a shuddering breath. Time is in limbo as the seconds tick by; he isn’t sure how long he’s been like this.
Someone knocks on his door. His phone buzzes in his pocket. The world keeps on moving, and Media Day waits for no man.
-
No Reaction from Piastri over Surprise McLaren Exit.
“One would be surprised that Piastri had no comments to provide regarding McLaren’s announcement before this week. The team took to their socials to announce the separation from the two-time race winner. While the team has stated the decision was not taken lightly.
One would have to question where it came from. Piastri has demonstrated skill and growth over the course of this year. Some rumors cite differences in opinions between McLaren CEO Zak Brown and the Australians mentor and manager, Mark Webber. Others cite Norris’s camp wanting to assert Norris as the team's number one driver.
…Regardless of the rumors, several questions remain. Why no comment from Piastri? Was this choice made for him? And lastly, with time ticking down, what will Oscar Piastri do now?”
-
“Oscar, what are your plans now that you’re a free agent for next year?”
“No comment.”
“A lot of us were taken aback by the announcement. When did you know you were going in a different direction than the team?”
“No comment.”
Over and over again. All day long. Oscar felt like he was losing his mind and the media were being stubborn. Despite the supposed brief they had gotten to not ask him about it. That’s all they asked about. On top of that, he suffered pitying looks from nearly the entire grid for the whole day. Alex hugged him; Fernando had given him a solemn nod of the head.
As they walked back to the hospitality from the media pen, a voice called out.
“Oscar!”
He turns back and spots Charles walking ahead of Carlos, who doesn’t look at him, along with their press officers.
“Hi Charles,” Oscar says casually, knowing what's coming.
“Is that any way to greet your big brother?”
The Monegasque is all smiles as he approaches and glances at Sophia, who turns away and keeps walking. Perks of being the prettiest person on the grid.
“Sorry, not in the best mood today.” He rubbed at his neck as he looked around.
“How are you? You didn’t reply to my message or Arthur's…”
“I’m alright, just trying to lay low, been busy, you know?”
“Oui, I’m sure rotting on your couch is hard work.”
“Hey listen…” His voice trails as Carlos stomps by, not looking at either of them. Charles rolls his eyes at the back of his fluffy head. “What’s his problem?”
“What isn’t? He’s mad at the world per usual. Hasn’t gotten a deal he’s happy with… and I think he’s worried now that you’re on the market.”
Oscar laughs a little. “Yeah, he should be shaking in his race boots.” It makes Charles chuckle. “Well, his ego took a hit at the beginning of the season, but I doubt he should worry; he tops the comparison game unfortunately.”
“Oh Oscar, you underestimate yourself too much. You’ve given him a run for his money, mon ami; it’s been highly entertaining to watch him suffer so.”
“Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“You could never; you’re not a whiny faux alpha man who can’t handle his boyfriend being picked over him.”
The statement hits him harder than Charles knows. Oscar can’t admit to him that he is a whiny man who can’t handle being picked over his boyfriend. Or almost boyfriend in his case.
“He’s a fool.” Is all Oscar says. It grants him Charles ’ million-watt smile.
“Oui, and you’re not. Any team principal will see that and snatch you right up.” He pats him on the shoulder.
“Hope you’re right.”
“Don’t worry, I always am.” With that, Charles turned to head back to his own hospitality, leaving Oscar in the paddock to marinate on his words.
He made it back to his own room with some time to breathe before someone knocked on his door yet again.
“Oscar, we have just a couple of videos to film for socials. If you can meet us outside in a minute.”
This day was never-ending. He rubbed his face and huffed. The only saving grace about any of this was that at least he had Lando. He wouldn’t do what Carlos did to Charles, blame him for the team’s choice. He was better than that, more mature than the Spaniard.
“Sure thing.” He sighed, rising from his couch.
The hospitality seemed to have calmed down a tad. They were at a stalemate. McLaren didn’t have the leverage to drop him for his insubordination. They were too close to stealing the Constructors’ to risk throwing someone to the wolves just yet.
Outside, Lando stands with hands tucked in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. He glances up at Oscar. It’s really the first chance all day for them to even chat. He can feel a pull in his chest towards the Brit. He hasn’t said a word about the announcement.
“Hey mate.” His tone is neutral and relaxed.
“Hey, how was today for you?” He’s fishing for acknowledgement for sure. It’s almost embarrassing how much he needs it right now. This whole day has gone beyond sucked, and if he could just get something, that would be such a boost.
But he got nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
Today it was as if Lando saw him as nothing more than an intern. More nuisance than teammate. His smile never reached his eyes when he had to interact with him. Laughter was hard around the edges. As soon as they wrapped up, Lando made a break for it. Like Oscar had the plague or something. He did not even wait a moment to speak to Oscar.
Instead of going back into the hospitality, Oscar went for a walk around the paddock. It was probably a stupid idea; there were probably journalists still lurking around. But he truly didn’t give a fuck.
Any time he spots someone he doesn’t want to talk to, he just slips between hospitalities. It leads to him occasionally making odd shapes as he tries to recalibrate. At one point he spots an eager-looking reporter and quickly ducks behind a large cabinet. He rests his head on the cool metal and sighs.
“Hey Oscar.”
He nearly jumped out of his skin. Whipping around, Oscar sees Max. He’s in his usual uniform, skinny jeans with a Red Bull shirt and drink to match.
“Fuck mate, you can’t do that.” He grabs at his chest; his poor heart's been beating hard enough today.
“Well, I’m not the one hiding behind the enemy's tool cabinet.” He laughs at Oscar, gesturing behind him.
He looks around him and realizes he’s pressed against the navy blue of the Red Bull hospitality.
“Sorry about that, I just didn’t want another journalist baiting me.”
“Saw that. Good job personally; I would just leave it as no next time.”
“Gee thanks, I'll keep it in mind for next time.”
“Oh, trust me, there’ll be a next time.” Max laughs a little at him.
“I see why you lost your mind a little after 2021. It’s absurd I’m not commenting on it.”
“For McLaren or yourself?”
It makes him pause. Max has his eyebrow quirked up as he looks at Oscar. There’s no judgement in his eyes.
“Both, I guess.” The Aussie shrugs. “If I talk about it, and say what I really want, McLaren might just sue me. Or I look insane, and everyone pities me.”
“Pities not bad.”
“But I’d be out of a job with no one willing to sign me. Not all of us have four world championships to back us up.” It comes out harsher than he meant it to. “Fuck sorry it’s been a long day.”
“No worries.” Max leans against the wall beside him. “So it was all bullshit, huh?” Max clocks the underlying issue immediately.
“Yep.” The p pops. “Didn’t even know until they posted it on Instagram. We were supposed to announce the re-signing before Brazil.”
“Not even a heads-up email? Never thought McLaren would be so stone cold.” The sarcasm was evident. Oscar stares at him. He’s not sure why he’s even telling him this. They aren’t close. Sure, they’ve chatted, but he’s Lando’s friend, not his.
“They’re certainly taking a page from your textbook.”
“The team, not mine. I don’t drop people like they’re nothing.” There’s an edge to his voice, firm and pointed.
“Yeah, well, I thought the same of them.” Oscar leans off the wall. “Thanks for the chat.”
“Anytime, Oscar.”
-
Later, Oscar rolls to his side, reaching for his phone as some documentary drones in the background. His lock screen is clear of any messages; he slid it open as he flopped onto his back. He clicked on his messages with Lando. The cursor blinked at him, taunting him.
Was it wrong to ask for comfort? To ask him to come over and just hold Oscar? Oscar huffed and closed his messages. That’s not them, not how they did things. They agreed it was a casual thing, that maybe when things were ‘settled’ they could try for more. But not now.
He switched to Instagram, scrolling through his feed and clicking through stories. Lando’s story appears because his algorithm knows him well and hates him. Picture of a dinner table, plates scattered around with half-drunk glasses. A few figures in the background are men and women. Like he knows how to stir his own fanbase up.
Oscar locks his phone and goes to bed. A hollow feeling in his chest.
-
“Listen, it’s all good; you can come back tomorrow during the sprint.” Mark pats him on the back as they leave the garage.
“They’re gonna say I did it on purpose.”
“Well then they’re gonna have to prove it with the data to back it up. You were clean all of FP1. Sprints are fussy little fuckers. You can make the spaces back up.”
“Eight places, seriously, with my luck Lawson is gonna take me out at turn one.” Oscar snorts as he undoes his zipper, letting the excess heat escape his body. He needs a shower as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry about Lawson; your job is just to focus on gaining places, gotta show the other teams what they could have.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they want a driver who can’t even hold a lap time.”
His shoulders have tightened up again; this isn’t what he needed. Probably the last thing he needed was starting P16 for the first sprint back. He was sure any team that may have been watching him was questioning his ability. He can feel Mark’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey kiddo, take a deep breath.”
“Trying; it's a little difficult given the circumstances.” He says dryly.
“I know, and you’re doing great so far. I have a few things I’m looking into, so don’t worry. One qualifying isn’t gonna get you booted from the grid.” It’s no more than a whisper, but it eases the pressure on Oscar’s chest.
“You sure?”
“Yes, now go deal with the debrief, and we’ll get back to the hotel and relax.” Oscar nods and walks ahead of him to get to the hospitality.
Mark slows his pace down and stands under one of the awnings to stay out of the heat. He swipes open his messages to look at his latest messages from Seb.
Mark
How are my boys doing?
Love
[Image of Sebastian sitting in bed with a small toddler by his side with a bottle in his hands]
He misses you to pieces right now. Looks like you’re dealing with a mess, how are things going there? I have gossip for you
Mark
Tense he’s having a hard time I can tell. What gossip?
Love
I heard from a little birdie Checo isn’t lasting till 2025
Mark
He’s got a solid contract. What on earth are you talking about?
Love
I heard from some people that they aren’t pleased with results, and even with the contract they’re going to buy their way out?
Mark
They’d be stupid; Checo’s solid. His nickname is the Minister of Defence for Christ’s sake.
Love
Not this year, and you know what they like to do with failing projects
Plus rumor is Max is bored fighting alone
Mark
So what? they’re going to promote a rookie too early? Toss another one in lava and hope he swims. And I am sure Max is perfectly fine with all the attention hasn’t had an issue with it so far.
Love
Well I had an idea-
Mark
Don’t even type it.
I swear to god I will make you sleep on the couch when I’m home
Love
What? All I’m saying is it’s not a bad idea.
Mark
I think you’re insane to even be suggesting it
Love
But you don’t disagree?
Mark
Of course I do. I am not throwing him into that toxic cesspool. We’d be trading a number two seat for another number two seat.
Love
But what if it isn’t? We both know they can’t continue catering just to him, and they know this. Just look at the mess they’ve made this year.
Mark
McLaren promised not to favor too, and look how that’s ended up.
Love
I think you’re worried about him becoming like you. He’s different, you made sure of that. You’ve given him the tools to spot the issues. He can handle it.
Mark
I know he’s different but we didn’t’ see this coming. And we can’t guarantee they’re different
Love
There’s only one way to find out. You should talk to him.
Mark stared at the words, reading them once, then twice. He glanced down at the paddock and sighed. He didn’t want Seb to be right, not in the slightest. Sure, he had worked through his own shit after he retired. Then again, when Seb retired, standing on the precipice made him weary yet again. But options were tight and time was running out.
-
Oscar was already sweating by the time he got to his car prior to the race start. His hair was beginning to curl at the back of his neck, and his fireproofs were clinging to his skin. But he ignored it as best as possible. He kept his head down; at least he didn’t have to deal with the cameras pointing at him too much today. All he had to do was drive.
He slotted into the car, feeling the heat radiating through the engine and wrapping him up. Tom was in his ear chittering away, reminding him of the gear shifts they were looking for him to use. Part of him wondered if there was the potential that they were screwing him over, but only time would tell. Oscar let his mind go as blank as possible, trying to clear out any worries and fears outside of the car. The last thing he needed was distractions.
The lights went out, and he got a decent start off the line. It’s a decent start and could have been better, but he had the space ahead to make up any lost spaces. The Saubers get an even worse start, and he’s able to pick up enough spots to go three wide with the Aston Martins. He holds tight to the corner of Turn 1 and prays he doesn’t make contact with anyone. Within a few turns, he passed Lawson and one of the Astons.
Two places, let’s see how many more he can get.
He’s as ruthless as he can be given the short amount of time for the sprint. Points would be a miracle for today, but if he could just show he can make a comeback, that might be enough. He chips away slowly at the drivers ahead: Gasly, then Stroll. One by one, Colopinto, then Tsunoda.
It’s not enough to get close to the points. Maybe if he had gotten off the line better at the beginning, he could have made easier work of the others. As he pulls into the pit lane, a small weight seems to lift off his chest. Another thing taken care of this weekend. Only two more things to deal with.
Oscar steps out of his car; the sweatiness becomes so noticeable now that he’s not focusing on driving. His skin feels sticky under the layers above, and each movement feels awkward as he goes to get weighed in.
He glances towards the timing and feels a tiny bit smug. At least he wasn’t Lando, who failed to bring the fight to Max and take the win in the sprint.
By the time he gets into his driver's room, he’s juggling to carry his helmet in his hands. The exhaustion is hitting him just a little bit. The sprint debrief is short and sweet; he doesn't really look at anyone, and no one says anything of note to him beyond a generic good job. With the lack of time between it and race quali later in the day mellows him out. He falls into a quiet headspace for what feels like for the first time in days. Just him and his focus on the track.
Oscar takes a quick shower just to get the residual sweat off before his skin starts itching too much. He ruffles his hair with the towel. Mark is lounging on his couch, scrolling on his laptop.
“Any news?”
“Just preliminary stuff; you definitely caused a few of these old geezers to wake up instead of trying to fight over Sainz.”
Oscar knows what this means: midfield teams. Mark doesn’t say it, but he knows those are his best options.
“As long as it’s not bloody Alpine I’ll take it.” Mark shuffles to the side as Oscar flops down beside him and sighs.
“Don’t worry, I don’t think we’re that desperate… yet.”
“That’s not promising in the slightest.”
“Calm down, we've got time, there's options. I just meant to joke with you.”
“I don’t think I’ll be in the mood to joke until I have a seat next year.” Oscar closes his eyes, trying his hardest not to think about driving the pink car next year. He groans as he settles into the couch.
“Okay, old man, don’t let Seb hear you.” Mark chuckles a bit as he readjusts on the couch, trying to stretch his legs across the small room’s floor.
“You’re one to talk; I see you using the large text on your screen for emails.”
“Oh fuck off.” Oscar feels Mark’s hand fluff up his damp hair, messing with it even further. His laughter helps ease the tension from his shoulders. “Don’t worry, kiddo, everything is gonna be okay.”
“You say that now, but if I have to drive a tractor next year I will go mad.” It’s all a bluff. He’s gonna take what he can get. There’s no top team that has an open spot. He’ll be fucking lucky if he gets the chance to stay on the grid.
“Hey.” An arm goes around his shoulder. “Listen, you're gonna be okay.”
Oscar swallows his anxiety. It’s not the place or the time to freak out on Mark. To tell him how terrified he is about all of this. The years he spent working to get here, everything that he sacrificed. Everything that his family sacrificed. It can’t be for two years of being in a midfield team that's just beginning to reach the top. It tastes like bile in his mouth, sour and acidic. He looks down at his feet, clad only in socks.
He has to go back out there, to the team that tossed him aside. Acting like everything’s fine and no one’s been giving him a weary side eye. Lando looks at him like he’s a completely different person he’s never even met before. All of it feels like some sick nightmare that no one is going to wake him up from.
“I know.” It comes soft, and he can feel Mark’s hand tighten on his shoulder.
Neither says anything for a moment. Maybe it’s because there’s not enough time. Or maybe it’s because they know Oscar is not going to listen to him. Not fully enough to accept the words being spoken. He would hear them and register them, but it would only be surface level.
When qualifying rolls around, he finds himself lingering. Everything feels off. The suit against skin. Tom’s voice in his ear sounds hollowed out. His breath feels too heavy.
He manages to get P5, and even that feels like a small miracle in comparison to Lando’s pole position. Six tenths off suddenly feels like an ocean away while he gets weighed. Oscar glances towards the top three. Lando lingers by Carlos with this cheesy grin on his face.
Max is off to the side, chugging water, looking out to the crowd. As if the closing gap between him and Lando is nothing. To Max, it probably is. Oscar feels this bloom of jealousy. It's rude that Max can take it all in stride. Maybe that's what four world championships get you. Unlimited confidence and a shit ton of money. He wishes he could do that and be completely fine in front and behind the camera. Not let anyone get to him.
His mood is sharply plummeting as he watches Max place the water down. His eyes scan the crowd and look around. There’s a brief moment when Max looks in his direction. Oscar looks away sharply, unsure if he’s been caught. His chest feels like it's burning from the anger and jealousy. He looks down, ready to go back to the hotel.
“Seems like you can’t always get what you want, huh, Piastri?”
His head whips up. George stands by the timing monitor, looking over at him like he’s done something wrong.
“Not sure I follow?”
George rolls his eyes. Pierre walks by, glancing at him and making a face.
“Oh, nothing, just tough luck, hm?”
It’s pointed, an underlying of something that means more than he’s actually saying. He’s Lando’s friend.
He doesn’t say anything in reply, just does his best to stare at George like he’s dead inside. It feels easier than it should.
Oscar lets himself go through the motions of everything else. Debriefing is simple. Lando is first; Lando gets priority. Oscar gets the scraps. He nods and does his best not to look at Lando out of fear for what he might do if he does. The car ride back is silent. Mark's phone is probably officially glued to his hand at this point.
He crawls into the bed of the hotel, just stripped down to his underwear. His eyes barely stay open long enough to set his alarm. Sleep catches him before tears can.
-
The Austin light is harsh on his eyes as they walk through the paddock. He feels like a zombie as he sips on his second coffee of the day. He may have slept through the night, but it felt more like he blinked and woke up. Oscar puts on the usual mask for the crowd as he enters the paddock. Smiling for photos and signs hats until someone pulls him away.
Everything blurs together. Faces and voices; his hands shake after the fourth cup of coffee from the crappy machine in the hospitality. He tries breathing, stretching anything to take his mind off everything. But his endurance is finally wiping out after trying to maintain some sense of decorum for the world.
Time’s like these, he doesn’t speak much. Patience is already worn thin from forcing himself to act like a reasonable person around others. His mother used to smile and call it his ‘quiet time’. Hattie, when they were kids, referred to it as his ‘robot time’. He didn’t particularly mind either; he needed to quiet his mind, and in a way it did feel like a reboot to his system. He nods as they discuss the strategy once again. He knows the drill. Medium tires for the first stint of the race until they pit.
Once he’s settled into the car, it feels like his body and mind finally settle enough for him to keep control. The heat is already becoming annoying, and he knows he’ll be terribly sweaty by the time the laps are over. When the lights go out, he gets a decent enough start.
Ahead of him, he can see Lando and Max go wide, giving Charles the perfect chance to slip through and take the lead. A sick satisfaction momentarily knowing that Lando will no doubt be on the radio bitching about how Max pushed him wide and needs to give up the position. But he falls behind Carlos and settles in front of Oscar. Part of him considers pushing harder than he needs to. Twist the knife a little deeper as his teammate failed to hold pole position for the whole first lap.
The early Safety Car doesn’t benefit anyone as Hamilton went wide. Eventually the laps begin to tick down as Sainz pits, followed by Max and Charles. Leaving Lando out in front with Oscar behind comfortably in P2.
“Leclerc behind.” Tom chirps in his ear.
“I’ve got no grip to hold him off,” Oscar tells him calmly. No grip means nothing when he’s the sacrificial lamb for Lando as Charles sweeps past him. It forces Lando to dive into the pits.
“Box. Box.” Oscar sweeps into the pit and stops the car. It’s a slow stop because, of course, he would have a slow pit stop.
The rest of his race was quiet, Lando ahead, racing to catch back up to Max, who seemingly was having issues.
“Verstappen ahead.”
It was the only indication on lap 53 that Lando had managed to pass Max. All for nothing, which pleased Oscar as he heard about the penalty as he pulled the car in. What a waste, starting from P1 all to end up getting a track limits penalty and winding up just shy of the podium. It was the first thing all day that made Oscar want to laugh.
He did his best to calm his face as they sat in the debrief, as he sat across from Lando, who looked like someone kicked his dog. The mood was somber; strategy and their rocket ship were no use for user error from the driver. Thankfully, the only thing of note they brought to Oscar was the poor pit stop, which felt like nothing. They had been giving him shit stops all season, and surely it wasn’t the last with his luck.
The ride to the hotel was calmer than the drive there. A night of hopefully actual rest before the flight out to Mexico in the morning. Maybe this time he would actually manage to get some rest.