Chapter Text
“Fifty-eight seconds.” Logan counts. “If I can hit a new personal best, I could beat him.”
April Fools. Clemency stadium. Three in the afternoon, where vomit chunks fly into drains like there’s nothing to lose. The U-17s 400 metre mens open finals just started. Made sense, since the 400 metre run was as much of a joke as April Fools was.
Oscar thinks Logan should be doing some strides down at the track for practice before his race instead of guessing timings, but he doesn’t tell him that.
See, Logan had a knack of guessing timings. It started, when he predicted Andrea Kimi’s U-15’s 400 metre run time last year, right to the millisecond. That was coincidental, sure, but he continued marking bullseyes, so the team entertained it, always running back to him to figure out their estimated personal record.
“He got a fifty-eight, Logan. Your personal best was a fifty-two. Of course you can beat him.” Oscar deadpans. Logan always had some weird habit of undermining his prowess.
Logan downs the last of his Pocari. Oscar wonders whether he’ll get stitches. “You never know. I’m not having a repeat of last year.” Mortification flashes through his eyes. He picks up his shoe bag and runs down to the track. “See you later, Piastri.”
“I’m getting a subway cookie if you get disqualified!” Oscar reminds him with a laugh. Logan waves off dismissively and disappears.
When April First hits, it tells you two things: One, that Oscar will definitely find his binder ambushed with sickly green slime. And two: Track Season restarts.
The slime is a prank that’s played annually by his juniors in high school, Paul and Dino. Randomised targets, and ruined school days. Just like the slime, Track was the same. Held annually, randomised stadiums to race at, and you never knew what’s coming.
This time it was at Clemency. Big, nice track, closed off with woody, spiny trees and large headlights that illuminated the field when the football team had games at dusk, cool and breezy. Football goals stacked at the sides of the track, large bleachers with small itchy bits of sand that always caught onto Oscar’s knees when he was stretching.
He knew this track at the back of his heart. The way the tartan red track would scrape against his running shoes, staining them red and fiery. The funny little hole near the start of the hundred metre mark where the start block’s nail would be kicked into, as he pressed his spikes into the blocks and shot off into the distance. The little tree that grew just near enough for him and his teammates to huddle around after a gruelling set of sprints, pouring water down their chests and wiping sweat off their faces.
Oscar hears a long sharp blow of a gun—signal for the next race. He watches as the runners take off—starting from the big numbers—usually signalling the end of a short sprint. But for 400m, that would be the start of something new.
The runners pick up speed, the first runner is sprinting, quickly, down to the second curve, before he slows, and they all look like they’re on the same pace, before a runner in lane eight overtakes and leads the race. He wins, passing the line quickly.
And that was the monster of mid distance races. It’s like Icarus with his wax wings, gleaming in the sun. The first curve and straight, you feel euphoric; a false sense of security. As your fatigue seeps in and your breathing gets harder—you slow, and you fall.
Oscar redirects his attention elsewhere. He can spot Logan, in his navy blue jersey with fluorescent yellow highlights, dusting off his spikes with the flick of a finger, waiting to get into position. He was lane 5, which was a pretty good lane in Oscar’s opinion. Not too far off and not too far in. He talks to Liam, a competitor who ran the same races Logan did, same heats, semis and all. The light strikes their heads just at the right moment. They both looked like they could be Apollo’s reincarnate, bright and dazzling.
The officials instruct them to go down, and they do. The competitors adjust their start blocks, sinking their spikes into the rough surface on them, looking straight down.
Bang, and it’s off. Logan shoots up, his back straightening five steps in and he’s gone. It was clear that his heat was a slow one, as he started to build a nice gap between the second runner. When they had reached the first straight, he was already at the end of the second curve. The fluorescent yellow blurs, and it looks like lightning bleeding into Logan’s body as he zips away. He burst forth with more energy at the last ten metres, and won.
Fifty three seconds. Oscar tries his luck. He’ll need Logan to clarify on that.
“God that guy is fast!” A voice echoed beside him. “His stamina is bollocks, mate.”
His eyes flicked to his side, and he vaguely saw a boy—probably from another school, sitting half hunched with his elbows on his knees. He had a friend right next to him—probably who he was talking to. The sun was shining right into Oscar’s eye, so he looked away without another thought.
Oscar grinned proudly at the praise. It wasn’t directed to him, but he felt proud, for Logan or something. Of course Logan was fast—he always had some sort of energy left after a long day of Algebra and Chemistry, still managing to be a lap quicker than Oscar in a 4 kilometre run, and still carrying enthusiasm in his voice as they dragged their feet to a nearby restaurant for dinner. His stamina was long and sharp, but he didn’t lose any speed with the amount of mileage he was doing. Oscar was thankful that he wasn’t in any mid-distance runs, because he’d be one of those runners blasting half digested burgers out of his system.
“I wonder why Carlos’ coach put him into mid distance.” The boy scoffs beside him. “Look at him, dying in fifth.”
This time, Oscar turns. It’s just a little glance, but it makes all the difference. The boy next to him is wearing a sickeningly orange shirt, a black baseball cap faced backwards—curls puffing out of the small velcro hole, his left hand fiddling with a gleaming watch that looked like way too much money for a normal highschool kid. He’s also swishing a capri sun on the other hand, which he then squishes unconsciously.
Which ultimately results in the drink catapulting out of the packet, droplets of the sweet, sickly drink shooting straight onto Oscar’s face.
He flinches, pushing a hand onto his cheek—it’s sticky on his face, mixing with all the sweat and oils on his face and—ugh. It just had to be him.
“Shit—I’m so sorry!” The boy exclaims, shifting closer, which is all but what Oscar wants him to do. His face is split wide open into a half-sheepish, half-amused grin, and Oscar wants to throw Logan’s forgotten white shoes at him.
“It’s fine.” It’s not fine. Oscar looks down and just catches a glimpse of shoes poking out of a bag. They’re hot pink, they’re spikes, and they’re the signature Nike ZoomX Dragonfly spikes. They’re the epitome of spike shoes, and almost every good track athlete has them. Oscar does not, and he is going to do something very bad.
“Do you need like, a wipe or something? I can-” The baseball cap boy gestures wildly to the back of the stadium. Oscar has no idea how he’s going to find a tissue in the midst of towering trees.
“It’s okay.” And Oscar makes a shoddy attempt to show him that it was, in fact, definitely, okay. He wipes his face with his shirt, missing a third of the spot where the capri sun had been squirted at. The boy grins, and retreats back to his side of things. Oscar turns away just to see Logan ascending the steps, already changed out of his jersey, wiping his nape with his towel.
“Fifty-one.” Logan says. Oscar stands up to clap him on the back.
“Coach is definitely treating you to Subway.” He says, picking up his bag. “And probably buy you new shoes.”
“And you owe me a cookie.” Logan clicks his tongue. “Bro, you have no idea how hot it was out there. Liam looked as red as a tomato-”
As Logan continues on his ramble, Oscar turns back to grab his things. He takes a small peek at the probably-rich-and-annoying-dude-who-squirted-capri-sun-on-him guy, and he’s looking back at him. They lock eyes, and Oscar looks away quickly.
Weird, weird guy. He hopes he never sees him again.
-
April 2nd. 200 metres Under 17 Mens Open Heats. Oscar’s signature race.
The 200 metre is the perfect length. Not too short, that you’d have to rely completely on explosive power and consistent, quick pace, but not too long, that he’d be completely collapsed on the floor, gasping for air.
Almost the entirety of his whole team was here. The juniors jamming out to ‘Bailando’, Logan the cameraman in charge of filming each and every one of their performances to scrutinise even the smallest of errors, George and Alex arguing over something miniscule and trivial.
“Alex, those are my shoes, there’s a little nick at the side of the shoe, from where I fell onto the hurdles-”
“You do not nick a shoe from falling onto hurdles, George! And you’ve literally never fell onto a hurdle since you were fourteen-”
“That’s false, I fell just last practice-”
“I’m ninety-percent sure those shoes are Fred’s.” Logan whispers to Oscar. He’s helping Oscar unscrew the rest of the spikes off his shoe, the little dull sharp knickknacks crowded on the floor just beneath him.
“Let them bicker.” Oscar snorts. “Watch them put it on and realise it’s three sizes too big.”
It was just past noon. That morning, the entire school had gathered to the auditorium to watch Logan’s 400 metre heats, with his large face plastered onto the screen next to the video. It had been more embarrassing for Logan than it was congratulatory, and Oscar doubled over in laughter for a good five minutes after it ended. His shoulder was still sore from where Logan had hit it repeatedly.
Now it was his turn to make it onto the screen. Surely. Hopefully.
Logan screws back new spikes onto his shoes as Oscar opens up his water for a drink. It’s boiling hot, as usual, because Track Athletes never get anything good. The only indoor stadium that exists is two hours away from their school, and that’s only if they make it to finals.
Fred comes rushing back to the toilets, completely unaware that Alex and George are wrestling for his shoes. He jumps to Logan’s side, pats him on the back, and fumbles through his kit. “Where are my shoes? Logan, did you take them?” He narrows his eyes at the American, who looks up with an offended expression.
“Why the hell would I need your shoes? Also, Alex and George are fighting with them right now.” Logan jerks his head to the left. Fred gasps and runs in the direction, pulling them away from his beloved sportswear. Athletes from other schools are goggling at them, leaving a huge distance from their team.
Fred runs back, tugging his shoes on and grabbing his jersey before flying back down to the toilets. Logan drops Oscar’s shoes to grab Fred’s water bottle, which he had hit and was half opened, almost spilling all over the bleachers. It drops with a resounding thud, and the dull spikes that had been sitting on the floor jump from the impact, and is sent flying.
“Shit! Sorry Osc-”
“All good.” Oscar runs to grab them before they fly any further. “I keep telling Fred not to keep his bottle uncapped, but he just won’t listen, will he?”
“Thank god I saved it.” Logan mimes wiping his head, storing the spikes into a small box.
Before they can say anymore, a speaker ahead crackles, and a following message is delivered through the entirety of the race track. “200 metres boys, heat five and heat six, please line up to the call room. I repeat-”
“Shit, that’s my heat.” Oscar scrambles for his shoes, but Logan hasn’t screwed all of them on yet. “Logan, my spikes!”
“Just practise with the normal shoes, I’ll get them to you before the race starts.” Logan tosses him said shoes. Oscar stuffs his feet in them. It feels really wrong and freaky, even though he’s worn these shoes for three years now. They’re too bouncy and squishy at the bottom. Oscar doesn’t need that. He needs to be able to claw into the track, grippy and flat.
Oscar regrets getting Logan to do this just before the start of the race, but he also curses Coach Webber for missing out on today’s races. He would’ve reminded him half an hour ago to finish his energy drink, to eat a granola bar, to check his spikes, to warm up in time. It’s all going very, very wrong.
“Oscar, your jersey!” A British voice echoes to his left. George, who has an hour more to his race, already wearing his own jersey and holding a banana in his hand. Slick hair, sunglasses, arm sleeve up and ready, George was more prepared than Oscar ever will be.
He lets out a short curse, grabs what he needs (at least, he thinks he has everything on hand), and runs off. A quick change at the toilets and he runs to the propped up stands at the side of the track, registering his name and lane. He’s number seven, which is average, but it feels unbearable on that day. He manages to pin his race number at the front upside down, and he wonders how he’s going to be able to pin the one at the back.
“Woah, everything good here?” A voice pipes up to his side. Oscar recognises his voice immediately, and dread pools. Well, it’s not dreadful, but it’s close.
The capri sun dude stands before him. On closer look, his hair gleams light brown in the boiling sun, but the guy isn't even fazed. His face, speckled with moles, eyes in whatever-the-fuck-blue they were, and a smirkish grin on his face. He was wearing a blue and fluorescent yellow jersey. Oscar would say it reminds him of Logan’s, but that would be disrespectful to his best friend, so he doesn’t. He was holding, and you guessed it, a capri sun.
“I’m fine.” Oscar says, again, for the third time he’s talking to that guy. And his things immediately fall out of his hands, rolling into the grass. He’s too humiliated to pick them up.
The boy laughs, and picks up the race number. “Here, let me do it.”
Oscar hands him the pins, relenting. The boy props three of them into his mouth, and Oscar averts his eyes so he doesn’t stare too much.
“So you’re doing two hundred too, huh?” The boy mumbles through the pins. Oscar can’t see him, but he can feel a small prick from the sharp pin. He tries not to flinch too much.
“Yeah.”
“What lane?”
“Seven.”
“Oho! Good one, they gave ya.” First pin is in. The grip on his shirt is released. It comes back again.
“Since when was it good?” Oscar raises his eyebrow, even if Capri Sun boy can’t see him.
“Come on, the middle lanes are like, everything.” Second pin is in. “You’re not too far off from lane nine, since they get a head start, but you’re closer in, so you don’t run much.”
“All the lanes are the same length.”
“See, whoever told you that was clearly lying. There’s an obvious difference.”
Oscar chuckles silently. There was a difference, but he tries not to think about it too much.
“Okay, done.” Oscar hadn’t even realised Capri Sun boy had released his jersey from his grip. He was by his side now, squishing the capri sun in his hand again. Oscar backed away from that, grabbing the things that had fallen to the floor.
“Thanks,” He says. Water Bottle and lane number sticker safe in his grip, he unlatches his hand and stretches it out of politeness. “Oscar Piastri.”
“Lando Norris.” He says, eyes crinkling up cheerily. Oscar can spot the obnoxious pink shoes glinting back up at him from the corner of his eyes.
“So, what races were you registered in?” Lando slides out of his grasp, one hand gripping onto his jersey, covering over his side, where the yellow streaked down, slowly disappearing into the blue. If Logan’s yellow highlights looked like lightning, Lando’s looked like a bright glowing ray that shone down on him, bright and striking.
“Two hundred and four-by-four.” Oscar replies. They’re walking down to the track right now, stalling time as starter pistols went off every next minute, burying down the adrenaline and exhilaration that reared its head from time to time.
“Mate, four-by-four? Respect. That shit’s hard.” Lando whistles.
“Yeah, but it's a straight finals, so we just have to qualify top twenty four.” Oscar adds. “Unlike all this.”
Lando smiles slightly, looking down at his spikes. His eyes roll over to Oscar’s shoes. “No spikes?”
Oscar turns back to the bleachers. “Uh…”
They’re interrupted by the officials calling for heat six to gather up near the start. They bunch up with runners in their heat and queue up. Lando’s heat four, so he gets to the front. Oscar peels the stickers off hurriedly and presses them to the side of his thighs, onto his black shorts. He looks back at the bleachers, worry marching through his mind. Where is Logan? Where are his spike shoes?
As he ponders, a hand grabs onto his shoulders tightly and shoes are dumped in front of him. It’s Logan, sweat dripping down his face. “Sorry! Arthur needed me to get him a Pocari.”
“That’s just a drink, Lo, these are race shoes!” Oscar hisses, and gives him a pat on the back as a thank you. He removes his shoes, and Logan grabs them, backing away as Oscar pulls on the shoelaces, tying them as quickly as he can. He stands up, jumping on the spot, getting comfortable in the new feeling.
He pushes his hair back, wiping any excess sweat that hangs on his eyebrows or near his cheeks, and they walk into position. The starting blocks, abandoned by the previous runners, are grabbed and pressed into position by the current ones. Oscar lines it up to a good angle, and crouches down. He breathes, calming himself down from what had happened. He needs this to be good.
His thoughts quiet, his mind goes blank, and he’s staring down at his feet. Everything is silent, everything is nothing, and all that matters is…
BANG!
And Oscar goes off. No thinking, just running. His legs claw at the track, moving up, ten metres, twenty, thirty. He passes by a few under runners, and there’s just one last runner.
Lando. They’ve arrived at the last hundred, and Oscar has his eyes set on finishing. He’s focused ahead, but Lando is just far enough for his eyes to trail over to his lane. His jersey flashes bright blue, the yellow zipping down to the finishing line, making a mark on the tartan red. One, two, three. Oscar leans forward, dipping down to stare at the number seven.
The air is knocked back into his lungs. The world slows, the blur focusing back into things. Trees, the sky, and Lando. Oscar was sure this wasn’t the first of firsts that Lando had grasped.
The curly haired brunette pounded back towards Oscar, giving him a rushed half hug and a toothy smile on his face. “Woo! Osc, one and two! I’m so sorry about splashing Capri Sun on you!”
Oscar is taken aback at the abrupt apology, but he takes it. The aftermath of a good race is exhilarating. It’s the feeling of you made it. “It’s all good.”
And it really was.
Lando hands him a Pocari with a grin on his face before they split. Oscar feels a sort of regret, one that wishes they would have talked more, one that wishes the conversation hadn’t been single-serving. Competitions always dished out one-time friends, like the disposables at a hotel room. You saw them once at the time of the meet, and never again.
Logan and Fred give him a pat on the back as he reunites at the bleachers. (“Twenty four seconds!” Logan cheers. “You looked like a horse.” Fred agrees)
They went out for Subway, even though Oscar knew Coach Webber would most likely plop down a BLT onto the lunch table tomorrow. Going separate ways, Oscar was on the train as his phone dinge, indicating a notification. He clicked on the pop up.
Coach: Good job team for the wonderful performance! Check your personal results below.
Oscar clicked on the link and scrolled down to the Under 17s section.
Under 17 Men’s 200m Open:
11. Oscar Piastri 24:31:07
Oscar’s eyes scanned upwards.
8. Lando Norris 23:54:12
And that was heats. On with the semi-finals.