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It takes a while before Oscar can finally go look for his teammate. He first has to go through an unsatisfying podium celebration and media duties. A press conference that makes him feel like he shouldn’t be there.
He would have liked to check on Lando the moment he stepped out of his car. Tom, his race engineer, told him on the radio what had happened as he was confused about being third. He swore Lando was supposed to be in front of him.
A penalty, one that hasn’t been given in years. A stop and go with thirteen laps to go in the race. From second to last, in the blink of an eye.
Lando hasn’t been doing well mentally. Oscar started noticing it halfway through the season. Around Silverstone.
The Brit keeps being so hard on himself, even when it isn’t his fault. He blames himself for everything. It’s in his nature it seems, but for the second half of the season it has been absolutely horrible.
Lando is an adult of course, Oscar knows that. He can deal with his problems himself just fine. He should be able to. He even has a sports therapist who helps him.
But since seeing Lando completely deflate after the Brazilian Grand Prix, Oscar worries about him. He noticed how down he looked after the race. He has seen the endless hate that is still being sent the Brit’s way.
Oscar tried to stay in contact with him over the break. Texting him here and there. Asking him about his day, or chatting with him about a generic topic.
Every single time he asked Lando how he was doing, the Brit would always reply “fine!” or “just doing my thing!”.
He worried anyway, remembering the defeated look on Lando’s face. He would have liked to check up on his teammate in person. But he doesn’t think they are at the level of friendship yet where Oscar can show up at his apartment unprompted.
But then he finds out through an interview posted on Social Media that Lando was indeed far from okay. That he was feeling alone. That he didn’t sleep for over forty-eight hours, replaying the race in his head over and over again instead.
Oscar should have showed up at Lando’s apartment with some comfort food, friendship level be damned.
Ever since then the Australian has been watching Lando like a hawk.
He was worried the Brit would implode after Las Vegas, but he seemed fine. Relief clear on his face. The fight with Max is over. He will try again next year, but for now it’s about the team. He doesn’t have to battle a three-time world champion anymore.
And this weekend Lando seemed energetic again. The Lando he knows and admires. He even gave Oscar a sprint win back with a giddy smile. A small thank you for all the support this year.
He didn’t have to. They’ve discussed it before. Supporting each other is what being teammates is about. You set your ego aside and help the team out when you need to, knowing you will get your chance in exchange.
Lando did it anyway, even though the team told him not to. It was epic, and it was sweet.
But Oscar doesn’t feel any of the fond happiness from yesterday anymore.
Instead he searches for his teammate with his heart in his throat.
He barges through the McLaren hospitality, frantically looking around himself. He barely greets his colleagues as they walk past, too focused on finding Lando.
He turns the corner towards the driver rooms and almost bumps into his teammates back. Lando seems to be on his way to the his own driver room as well.
“Lando, there you are, mate,” Oscar says. Trying to keep the concern out if his voice.
Lando doesn’t reply, which is worrying.
He keeps walking, face tilted slightly downwards.
“Lando, hey,” Oscar calls his teammate again, speeding up, coming to walk beside him.
Lando doesn’t look at him, but he stops walking, freezing in place. The lack of response worries Oscar even more.
He goes to stand in front of him. Lando doesn’t look up.
“Lan- Lando?” he says quietly, bending down a bit, trying to get his teammate to focus on him.
Lando does tilt his head up to look at him. But his eyes don’t focus. Oscar feels like the breath has been punched out of him.
Lando looks numb, green eyes glazed over. Like he isn’t there.
The younger driver carefully reaches out. He almost never does, but he desperately feels the need to do so now. He needs the other driver to be alright.
He places his hand on Lando’s upper arm and squeezes softly.
“Hey…”
He doesn’t know what to say. How to coax the Brit to talk to him.
I’m sorry your race got destroyed by the FIA? I’m sorry the fight for the constructors championship still isn’t over? I’m sorry you are dealing with setback after setback after setback?
Lando is shaking. Oscar can feel it though the fabric of the older driver’s fireproofs.
It heightens the level of worry by a tenfold. A cold flash rushes over Oscar’s body.
He doesn’t think when he softly pulls Lando through the hallway and into his own driver room.
He closes the door behind him and turns around. He focuses on the shivering Brit in front of him. Lando doesn’t look back at him, he stares at the floor instead.
Oscar’s chest hurts, seeing his teammate like this. His usually energetic, bold, and charming teammate, reduced to a man so vulnerable Oscar can pull him with him without a fight.
“Lando?” Oscar doesn’t know what to say or do.
Lando’s breathing picks up. Hitched and panicked.
Oscar’s instinct takes over. He is never the one to initiate physical touch, it doesn’t come natural to him.
But in this moment, everything inside him screams at him to hug his teammate. To hold him and keep him safe. To let him know he is not alone.
So he does.
He pulls Lando into a hug, gingerly slinking an arm around his waist. His other hand makes its way to the back of the Brit’s head.
With his finger tangled in Lando’s hair, he carefully maneuvers the older driver’s head to rest against his collar bone.
At that moment, Lando breaks.
The Brit comes to life with a jolt, wrapping his arms around Oscar. Shivering arms weakly squeeze the younger driver’s chest.
Sniffs sound through the room. Oscar rubs his back, feeling Lando sag against him.
“I’m sorry,” Oscar whispers, “it’s so unfair.”
Sniffs turn into sobs. Lando’s chest heaves. Oscar’s throat closes up at the heart wrenching sound.
“I’m a stupid idiot,” Lando grits out between sobs. He sounds so broken.
Oscar sways them gently, and runs his fingers through Lando’s curls. “No you’re not. It was a confusing situation.” The sobs keep getting worse. Oscar’s own fingers are trembling. “That penalty was way out of proportion…”
His voice cracks at the end of the sentence and Oscar hopes Lando calms down before he starts crying himself.
But Lando doesn’t calm down. His breaths come faster and faster. When his knees buckle, Oscar starts to panic. He gently pulls Lando to the small couch, sitting down and taking the Brit with him.
Lando practically sits in his lap, his legs thrown over Oscar’s, but Oscar barely notices it. He is too busy trying to calm Lando down before the Brit spirals into a panic attack.
He shushes Lando. Sways him back and forth. Rubs his back, and the side of his leg.
Lando buries his face in Oscar’s neck. His arm wraps around the Aussie’s back, taking the fabric there in a death grip.
The high-pitched noise he lets out sounds like it hurts. There’s a stabbing pain in Oscar’s stomach.
“Deep breaths.” Oscar demonstrates it, needing to calm down himself as well, but Lando does not seem to hear him.
The Australian takes Lando’s trembling hand in his own and presses it flat again his own chest.
“Come on, Lando. Follow me…” He breathes in slowly. “Breathe in.” And breathes out just as slow. “Breathe out.”
He keeps repeating it, over and over, until Lando starts following his directions.
His breaths start to slow down, still broken up by sobs, but it’s less frantic.
Oscar keeps rubbing his hand up and down his teammates back. He keeps breathing slowly, squeezing Lando’s hand against his chest.
They stay like that for a while, breathing slowly until they both feel calmer.
The Brit leans back a bit, lifting his head. When he looks at Oscar, his eyes don’t look dead anymore. His eyelashes are clumped together, making his eyes look even greener. He looks defeated, sad, but not as numb to the world as before.
Lando proves he is back by finally talking to Oscar. “Sorry, Osc,” he whispers.
When Lando pulls his hand out of Oscar’s grip to rub at the tear tracks on his face, the Australian doesn’t stop him. He rests his hand back on Lando’s leg again, giving his teammate a bit of space while also staying close.
“Please don’t apologize. You’ve apologized for things out of your control enough already this season…” Oscar says with a strained voice. The pain in his chest has yet to subside.
Tears fill the Brit’s eyes again. “It WAS my fault. We could have won the constructors today, but I fucked it up, as always.”
He tries to pull away. Oscar doesn’t let him leave, wrapping his arm around the Brit’s waist. The death grip Lando still has on the fabric on his back is telling.
Oscar takes a deep breath. “Yes, you made a mistake. But the way the FIA handled it was terrible. Did you even see the double yellow flags?”
Lando rubs his eyes. He shakes his head. “I didn’t know why I didn’t see it. I should have…”
Oscar sighs.
“Lando?” he waits until the Brit looks at him again. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Will should have warned you. The FIA should have been more consistent with their penalties. A stop and go with thirteen laps left completely ruins a race. It’s out of proportion.”
Lando sniffs as he listens to Oscar.
“I think it’s insane you got back into the points within the minimal time you had left… That definitely proves you’re a skilled driver.”
Oscar breathes in. “So please. Stop being so harsh on yourself… You don’t deserve that…”
Lando looks at him, locked in on Oscar’s face, as if he is searching for something. He seems to find it, as he nods weakly.
He then looks down, and notices the position they are in. Oscar can feel him flinch.
Lando starts to move away. “Don’t. Stay.” the Australian says, slight desperation in his voice.
The Brit is always the one to respect his boundaries. He doesn’t reach out to him often, as he knows that Oscar doesn’t like to be touched without warning. But Lando craves physical touch, especially in moments like these.
Lando freezes.
“Oscar, you hate it when people invade your aura. I’m basically sitting in your lap…” His voice still sounds wavery.
Oscar huffs. “And I’m the one who pulled you into a hug in the first place. So please…”
Lando’s breath hitches. A stray sob wracking his body. “Are you sure?”
Oscar nods, smiling softly.
The sigh Lando lets out when he rests his head back on Oscar’s shoulder confirms the younger drivers thoughts: Lando still needs the comfort.
Oscar dares to lean his head on top of Lando’s, who melts against him in response.
“I’ve been worried about you. Let me be your emotional support human for a bit, alright? For both our sakes,” Oscar tells him softly.
A pause, and then Lando nods.
“Want to play videogames in my hotel room later?” Lando whispers. He fidgets with the watch around Oscar’s wrist.
“Of course,” the younger driver replies just as quietly.
Oscar even stays the night.