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“Tell him I’ll let him through, last corner,” Lando sighs into his radio, defeated.
“Lando.” Will says, and then lets out a string of curses. Something clicks in Lando’s brain, and he knows what Will is about to say before he says it.
“Safety car, Lando, Safety car. Hamilton and Verstappen crashed, Turn 10.”
Lando swears, turns off his radio, and swears more, starting to slow down.
“We will finish the race under safety car, Lando,” Will says, the radio crackling, and the blood in Lando’s veins turns to ice. He can see Oscar in his mirrors, now.
The adrenaline is nearly making his hands shaky on the wheel, and he presses the radio button again, desperate, “I can— we can swap the cars, still? I can slow down—“
“No, Lando,” Will sighs, cutting him off. “The safety car is out of the pits already. No overtakes allowed. Just bring it home.”
Lando catches the safety car, and decides not to look in his mirrors anymore. If he sees the glint of Oscar’s helmet, he’ll picture the slump of his shoulders, the hang of his head, as the win he deserves, his maiden win, is taken out of his hands.
When he crosses the checkered flag, Lando barely feels anything, jittery excitement and red-hot frustration turned to numb acceptance.
“And that’s P1, Lando, good job,” he hears, but even Will can’t muster up any excitement. They all know it wasn’t supposed to be this way.
“Yeah,” Lando says, belatedly realizing he should respond. “Good racing.”
It sounds fake, even to his own ears. “Tell Oscar…” he trails off, not knowing what he could even say. Tell him sorry? That it should have been him? “Nevermind,” he sighs.
“Thanks to everyone at the factory, rocket ship of a car,” he adds, robotically. He doesn’t thank the pit wall. He can’t bring himself to care.
By the time he drives up to the P1 spot in parc ferme, the numbness has spread from his head down to his chest, his arms, his legs. He sees Oscar pull up in P2, and get out of his car. Oscar doesn’t get to stand over the halo, raise a fist in the air. He doesn’t get to rip off his helmet triumphantly. He just steps out, like this was a practice session, or a bad qualifying. And then he walks over to Lando.
Lando panics. Is he mad? Is he going to drag me out of the car and fight me? He should be mad. If it were me, I would be mad, Lando thinks, glancing nervously at where Oscar is approaching. But it isn’t Lando. It's Oscar. And he simply offers Lando a fist bump, a polite nod in congratulations. Lando gives him a weak thumbs-up in return.
Fuck.
Everything that happens after getting out of the car feels like an out-of-body experience. He barely registers Charles congratulating him, and when he runs over to the team, he feels hollow accepting their cheers. He reaches Andrea and nearly grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him, asking WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? But instead he just accepts the hug, looking away.
He pulls off his helmet and balaclava, arranging his face into something more acceptable than devastated or numb, and greets the crowd of reporters, holding up a pointer finger on one hand as he pulls on a McLaren cap. He doesn’t turn to look as Oscar greets the team behind him. When they finally look at each other, Oscar gives him a good-natured smile and a nod, and something in Lando gives, something that feels like relief.
He pats Oscar’s shoulder in return, walking back to where he’s placed his helmet on the stand. When Oscar unzips his race suit, letting it hang from his hips, Lando takes a sip of water, mouth dry.
The post-race interviews pass like a fever dream. Lando catches Oscar saying something about how he didn’t deserve the win, since he couldn’t catch up, and he feels sick, turning away and messing with his papaya-orange cap. When it’s his turn, Nico Rosberg is looking at him, but there’s something behind his eyes like he’s seeing the past layered over the present.
Before Nico can even ask a question, Lando blurts out, “It should’ve been him.”
Out of frame, Nico seems surprised, and gives him a grim nod, begrudging respect.
“But it was you,” he says, and Lando feels the weight of it, pressing down on his shoulders.
“Lando, it is your second Formula 1 win ever, your second this season, after Miami, how do you feel?”
Lando swallows nervously. Usually, he doesn’t mind post-race interviews, especially after good races. For all intents and purposes, this should be a good race, but there’s still a pit in his stomach. Shame. Guilt. Overwhelming guilt.
“I’m always happy to win,” he says, carefully, “but I think as a team we could have done better. Been more clear, made it less complicated. That’s all I’m going to say on it.”
“We got the impression you thought it was not quite fair, of the team, to try and let Oscar pass,” Nico says, narrowing his eyes. “If it were not for the safety car, would you have let him back through? Or had you already decided?”
Lando feels sick again, fighting the urge to glance over at Oscar, where he’s stood by the cars. “I’d already said I would let him pass,” he starts, and he feels the cameras glaring at him as reporters hurry to note what he says. “I had told my race engineer, I would let him through on the last corner. We didn’t– I didn’t think there would be a safety car,” he says, weakly. He feels like a kid, getting caught stealing candy from the jar on the counter. You took something you shouldn’t have, Lando. How do we know you would have given it back?
“When you were out in front, were you thinking of the team, or were you thinking of the championship?”
The hand not holding the mic curls into a fist, nails digging into his palms. “I– I’m always thinking of the championship,” Lando bites out, “but I wouldn’t be there without the team. The team comes first, of course.” He knows his words sound empty, after what he’s done, but still he repeats them.
“Who do you think deserved to win, you or Oscar?” Nico says, and it feels like he’s pressing on a bruise for the both of them.
“Oscar,” Lando says, and the hum of the reporters becomes a roar. “He had the better start, off the line, mine was — bad, and. And I was given the lead by the team. It was strategy, not racing. I should have given it back. He should have won.”
Lando ducks his head, signaling that he’s done with the questions, and Nico nods. “Thank you, Lando. Enjoy the win,” he says, and Lando steps away, taking a shuddering breath. He can feel the eyes of the team on him, staring him down. He turns away.
The cooldown room is nothing short of awful. When he walks in, Charles is already seated in the P3 chair, and Oscar is standing in front of the P2 table, holding the cap in his hands, staring down at it, like if he looks at it long enough, it will re-stitch itself with a golden “1st.”
He slinks away when Lando approaches, still holding the cap, not meeting his eyes, and Lando feels the edge of relief from earlier slip away. He takes his own cap, P1, and tosses it on the ground to place his helmet there. Behind him, Charles whistles, but mercifully doesn’t comment.
The highlight reel begins to play on the screen, and he reaches down to pick it back up, turning it over in his hands. He watches the race start, watches Oscar pulling ahead, feels the familiar twist of pride and shame swirl in his gut at the same time. When they show him shooting past Oscar on the pit exit, he looks away.
The room lacks its usual banter.
The podium ceremony is even worse.
As he’s handed the 1st place trophy, a beautiful vase emblazoned with a 1, he can feel Oscar’s eyes on him.
Lando doesn’t know what’s going through Oscar’s head right now, but when he lifts the trophy and meets his eyes, he recognizes the feeling. Hunger .
When it’s time to spray champagne, Lando takes his bottle, turning, and instead of smashing it on the podium like everyone expects him to, he upends the contents directly onto Oscar’s head, grinning, as the confetti explodes into the air around them.
Oscar gasps, as his hat and hair immediately get soaked through, and he can’t even grab his own bottle to retaliate before Charles is joining in, spraying him directly in the face.
Lando and Charles laugh, sharing a look, and then Charles nails him, too. Eyes burning, confetti sticking to him everywhere, Lando looks up to see Oscar smiling at him softly, and it feels better than relief — it feels like forgiveness.
Good racing, indeed.