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On his way out of the media pen Lando was surprised to find Oscar slumped against the wall, head dipped towards his knees and looking distressed. He had heard that his younger teammate was struggling with food poisoning, but he had barely seen him all weekend. Now it all made sense.
He lowered himself to Oscar’s level and, not wanting to scare him, softly said his name to let him know he was there.
It appeared to surprise him anyway, as the Australian’s head shot upwards faster than he currently seemed to be able to cope with.
Lando apologised repeatedly until he fully caught sight of his alarmingly pale complexion, combined with the sweat forming on his forehead that caused some strands of his hair to stick to his pale skin. And on closer inspection he noticed his eyes were red and watery and if he felt half as bad as he looked he couldn’t blame him for being upset.
Not only being unwell, but the conditions were too sticky and hot for Lando in his healthy state, so he couldn’t imagine how much Oscar was suffering with his dodgy stomach in his black fireproofs.
“I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay, because I can see you’re not,” Lando told him, and Oscar offered a small shrug in response. He knew his teammate didn’t have the energy to argue even if he wanted to.
“I’m-“ Oscar stopped, and Lando found himself shuffling to the side slightly. It looked like the Australian could vomit at any second and he didn’t want to make himself a target. “I’m just taking a minute.”
“You’re going back?”
“I haven’t done all of the media yet,” Oscar replied with heavy, breathless pauses every few syllables. “I tried. I thought I was going to throw up, but I didn’t, so now I’m here, trying not to throw up, and they keep staring at me.”
Lando followed Oscar’s eyes towards a few journalists looking back at them, definitely more concerned than anything else, but he was aware it made his teammate feel uneasy. It led to the older driver returning to his original position where he could shield him away from those who were watching him. At least, anyone inside the media pen.
There were plenty of people doing a double take as they walked past them in the paddock, and several with their phone cameras out. Lando could only do so much.
“Forget media,” Lando said, making an executive decision that he would explain to their team when they questioned it. “No one needs to see you chuck up on camera.”
“I- uh.”
“You’re in no state, Oscar. Trust me. I’m going to help you back to the motorhome. Can you stand?” Lando stood up, inviting him to join him. The hesitance was already showing.
“Yeah, just- yeah.”
Oscar accepted Lando’s hand but took his time standing up, appearing disorientated when he eventually landed on his feet. Lando didn’t let go of his arm until he was sure he wouldn’t lose his balance as soon as he let him go, and a few steps with a loosened grip put his mind at ease and made him believe he could at least make it to his driver’s room.
He didn’t. It was barely a few metres before Oscar stopped in his tracks, throwing a hand over his mouth all of a sudden. “I’m gonna be sick.” His voice was panicked, and Lando knew he had to do something.
He could see there were cameras everywhere, from Sky Sport filming live to supporters who wouldn’t think twice about putting a clip of a driver vomiting in the paddock on TikTok.
He spotted a gap between the AlphaTauri and Haas motorhomes and hurried Oscar into a more secluded section of the paddock. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. A few cameras had probably followed them, but Lando ensured he remained directly behind his teammate.
He gently pressed his palm against Oscar’s back as the younger man reached out and threw a hand against the Haas motorhome, his upper half thrusting forward in time with him violently emptying his stomach onto the grass beneath him.
Not only was the sight of vomit pouring through Oscar’s fingers something Lando wouldn’t be able to forget anytime soon, but the sounds of choking and retching were turning his own stomach, and it never seemed to end. Even as Oscar appeared to have nothing left in his system, his body continued to try and work against him to heave something up.
Suddenly Lando had a newfound respect for everyone who looked after him in Brazil.
“Uh, are you done?”
“Yeah,” a weak, croaky voice replied. Oscar swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, the smell activating his sensitive gag reflex again.
“Come on. We’ll go around the back.”
Lando helped Oscar reach McLaren’s motorhome, guiding him past everyone’s curious and concerned looks until they reached his driver’s room. It was a mess, even by Oscar’s standards, but he would let him off in his current state.
Oscar was gripping onto the sink for dear life between scrubbing his hands and splashing some cold water over his face, and it was obvious he couldn’t remain on his feet for much longer.
Lando transferred the clothes on the bed to the chair, and encouraged Oscar to lie down, and when he did, he closed his eyes straight away. Lando edged away slowly, quietly. “You going to be okay if I go and finish media? I’ll get the doc to check on you.”
“Yeah,” Oscar agreed, already succumbing to the sleep he must have missed out on overnight. Lando felt guilty that he hadn’t encouraged him to remove the race suit that remained bunched up around his waist, but it was too late now. He was sure Oscar would take it off if it was bothering him too much.
He felt even worse when he left him alone, and couldn’t help but be distracted throughout the rest of his interviews.
Later on Lando's texts went unanswered and his calls ignored, and when he returned to the motorhome he was told Oscar had been checked over and returned to the hotel to rest.
The first thing Lando did when he returned to their hotel was knock on Oscar's door.
He stood back, waited a couple of minutes and wondered if Oscar was sleeping. He didn't want to knock again to interrupt him and he was about to head to his own room when the door opened, only slightly, and his unwell teammate peered his head around.
He looked exhausted, but not like he had been woken up, to Lando's relief. He wouldn't have forgiven himself, knowing how little sleep he managed when he had food poisoning in Brazil. "I- uh, just checking on you."
Oscar opened the door wider, and although it probably wasn't, Lando took it as an invitation to enter the room. His teammate didn't argue and just closed the door behind him.
“Have you eaten anything?”
“Uh, no,” Oscar admitted. “But I haven’t thrown up in almost two hours, so I’m counting that as a win.”
“Can I interest you in some food?”
“Absolutely not,” Oscar said, grimacing. He motioned towards the nightstand. “I’ve got water and medication and I’m trying very hard to keep them down.”
“How about some company for a bit?"
“You really want to spend more time with your sick teammate?”
Lando shrugged to make it seem more casual than the reality that he needed to be sure Oscar was doing okay, and the best chance of that was keeping him company. “I’ll even let you pick a film.”
Almost an hour into the film Oscar was struggling to keep his eyes open, causing Lando to switch it off and pull the blanket over him. It took a while for him to get comfortable but eventually he settled, and Lando was sure he must have finally fallen asleep. He felt relieved that Oscar’s body had finally given him a break for the first time all weekend, and he didn’t dare to move to risk unsettling him. Instead he occupied himself on his phone, including updating the team on Oscar.
He was aimlessly scrolling through friends’ night out pictures on Instagram when he felt the mattress move underneath him. The room was dark and he used the limited light from the street lights coming in through the gap in the curtains to try and see if Oscar’s eyes were open, but he appeared to still be asleep.
When he returned to his phone, the mattress moved for a second time, and this time he could feel how restless his teammate was. He still wasn’t quite awake, and Lando wondered if he should wake him if he was feeling sick again. The alternative was permanently ruining the one decent sleep he’d had all weekend.
The decision was made for him when Oscar started coughing, an action that alerted the Australian into fully waking up and hurrying into the en suite.
Lando turned the light on to find Oscar hunched over the toilet, trying to hack something up from his convulsing stomach. The coughing became more forceful and the acidic bile that he managed to bring up sounded like it was burning his throat.
His breathing sounded laboured through the relentless dry heaving, and Lando could do nothing but kneel behind him and wait helplessly for his body to let up.
Oscar turned around, revealing his reddened eyes, the yellowish dribble on his chin. He looked like he could fall asleep upright if it wasn’t for the sharp coughs, but as they became more infrequent, he lay his head on the toilet seat.
“Oscar,” Lando called, but he didn’t react. “Oscar.”
His eyes opened, blinking weakly.
“Don’t lie there, mate.” He cautiously lifted his shoulders and encouraged him to sit up, but he was dazed, his head flopping downwards. Lando pulled him towards him so he could lean against his chest, and his teammate slumped against him.
His coughing subsided and his breathing seemed steadier, but it had taken everything out of him. As Lando subconsciously stroked his fingers across his back, he felt weirdly protective of him.
“I’m going to help you back into bed.”
“I can sleep here,” Oscar said, words muffled in Lando’s t-shirt. He quickly caught himself and peeled himself away from his teammate. “I mean, you should go back to your room, get some sleep.”
“I don’t-“
“Please. You can’t- not before the race. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re-“
“Tired,” Oscar said, followed by a timely yawn. “It’s late and I don’t want to keep you up. I probably won’t get much sleep again, but I promise, I’ll be fine.”
Lando wanted to believe him, and he did, to an extent. Oscar would be fine, but he currently wasn’t. He still hadn’t moved himself away from the toilet. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Race weekends when you’re sick. You want everyone to think you’re fine, you can do it, but it’s fucking tough.”
Oscar lifted the shoulder of his t-shirt over his wet eyes as he raised his head, but the tears stubbornly continued. Lando hadn’t known Oscar long, but he already knew he wasn’t one to let his emotions show in front of other people. He wished he was that calm in his first season. He wished he was that calm now.
“It’s okay to admit it,” Lando said softly. “They’re not going to tell you that you can’t drive the car because you admit you’re struggling with this.”
A slight nod, and Lando realised that was probably as close as Oscar was going to get to saying it out loud.
“I’ll help you back to bed.” He did, and he insisted that he drank some water before he lay down. The mild protest reminded him of how much of an awkward patient he used to be for Carlos when he was sick in his first couple of seasons, and he appreciated that Oscar wasn’t half as difficult as he had been when his former teammate tried to help him.
Alongside many other things he missed that after Carlos left. He loved having Daniel as a teammate, but he kept his distance during his tonsillitis and his own food poisoning.
After a while of Oscar being in what seemed to be a settled sleep Lando did eventually sneak back into his own room, but he wasn’t sure he got much more sleep than his teammate by the time his alarm went off in the morning.
At breakfast he could see Oscar cautiously nibbling on a piece of dry toast under the watchful eye of Mark, and it wasn’t until the other Australian left the table to make a coffee that Lando slid himself into the empty seat next to him.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
“Yeah, better,” Oscar shrugged. The smile he offered seemed more convincing than it had all weekend, even if there still wasn’t much colour in his cheeks. “Thank you, for yesterday.”
“You don't have to thank me.”
“No, you didn’t have to, you know. It can’t have been nice, but, yeah, I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“What a teammate is for,” Lando insisted, clapping his hand against his shoulder before returning the seat to Mark.