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McLaren Motorhome - Canadian GP 2025
The door slammed shut behind Oscar. He still had his suit half on, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat. The race was done. His points were secured. But all anyone would talk about now was the incident.
The one Lando caused.
He found him in the far corner of the private driver's room, still in his own suit, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at nothing.
Oscar stood in the doorway for a long moment before speaking.
“They said you’re fine, no major injury.”
Lando didn’t look up.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“It was a stupid move,” Oscar said carefully, not accusing. Just stating it. “There wasn’t space.”
Lando let out a bitter breath—half-laugh, half exhale.
“You’re allowed to say it, y’know,” he muttered, “that I fucked it.”
Oscar stepped closer, frowning.
“I’m not here to throw blame, Lando.”
“No,” Lando said. “You’re here to be decent. Like always.”
His voice wasn’t angry. Just… tired. Hollowed out.
Oscar sat across from him, dropping his helmet on the seat beside him.
“I didn’t ask to be ahead of you.”
Lando finally looked up at that. His eyes were red-rimmed. Not from crying—probably—but from everything else. Frustration. Embarrassment most of all. That gnawing rage at himself.
“You didn’t have to ask,” he said. “You’re just… better this year.”
Oscar blinked.
“Lando—”
“Don’t,” Lando snapped.
Then softer, like it hurt to admit. “Don’t make this easy. Don’t pretend this doesn’t feel like shit.”
Oscar didn’t speak for a while. He just watched him. Saw the crack behind the grin Lando wore all weekend. The tension in his shoulders. The tremble in his hands. The way he wouldn’t meet his eyes for more than a second.
“Why are you so angry with me?” Oscar’s voice was quiet.
Lando laughed again, short and bitter.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not angry at me?”
“I’m angry at everything. But no, not at you.”
He swallowed hard, then added—
“If I hated you, Osc, this would be easier.”
Oscar’s breath caught. His throat felt tight.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lando leaned back, head resting against the wall, eyes closed like it was easier not to look.
“It means I can’t stand watching you do everything right. I want to be happy for you, and I am, but I also want to scream. I want to beat you. I want to punch a wall. And then you walk in here like none of it touched you, and it makes me want to—”
He cut himself off.
Oscar didn’t push. Instead, he reached forward—hesitantly—and set his hand on Lando’s knee.
“I’m not trying to take anything from you.”
“I know,” Lando whispered. “That’s the worst part.”
Lando was quiet now. The anger had burned through, leaving only ash and shame in its place.
Oscar’s hand still rested lightly on his knee. And somehow, that made it worse.
“Everyone’s calling it my mistake,” Lando muttered after a long silence. “Like I just… lost my head. Maybe I did.”
Oscar didn’t respond right away. He waited. Measured.
“They’re right,” he said, gently. “You did.”
Lando flinched, and Oscar sighed.
“But it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
“Easy for you to say.” Lando’s voice sharpened, just slightly. “You’re leading the championship. Everyone’s calling you the next McLaren golden boy.”
Oscar tilted his head.
“You think I don’t feel the pressure?” he asked softly. “I just don’t scream when it cracks me.”
Lando stared at him. For the first time in weeks, Oscar let the coolness in his gaze thaw.
“I’m not your enemy,” he added.
Lando shook his head.
“Maybe not. But you’re not just my teammate anymore, Oscar. You’re the benchmark. Every weekend.”
Oscar looked down for a moment, thoughtful.
“Then maybe you should stop chasing me like I’m something to beat,” he said. “And start seeing me for what I actually am.”
“Which is what?”
Oscar stood, picked up his helmet, and walked to the door. He paused, turning halfway back.
“Someone who’s scared of losing you.”
Lando’s expression dropped.
Oscar hesitated a beat. Then he stepped forward again, slow and deliberate.
He bent down, just enough to press a kiss to Lando’s forehead—gentle, steady, heartbreaking.
“The crash wasn’t a big deal,” he whispered, lips brushing his skin. “But losing you would be.”
Then he turned and walked out. Leaving Lando alone in the silence, face in his hands, pride shattered, heart wide open.
Later that night - Hotel Room in Montréal, 1:24am
Oscar was half-asleep when he heard the knock.
It wasn’t loud. Just two taps. Hesitant.
He opened the door without asking who it was—he had a feeling he already knew.
Lando stood there in a hoodie, hood up, damp hair curling around the edge slightly from the shower. He looked exhausted. But more than that—he looked unsure. Like he almost didn’t want to be there.
Oscar stepped aside without a word. Lando walked in.
The silence stretched long, but it didn’t feel empty.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Lando muttered finally, pacing a little. “Kept thinking about what you said. What you did.”
Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, calm as ever.
“And?”
Lando stopped pacing. He faced him. Something raw flickered behind his eyes.
“Why did you kiss me?”
Oscar didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just looked at him.
“Because you needed it,” he said softly. “And maybe… I did too.”
Lando’s throat moved like he was swallowing something down.
“I didn’t deserve it,” he whispered. “Not after what I said. Not after that move.”
Oscar stood slowly.
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“But you’re not denying there’s something here,” Lando said.
Oscar didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer—close enough to breathe the same air, but not touch.
“We’re not just teammates,” Oscar said quietly.
Lando nodded.
“Yeah.”
Another pause. This one longer. Heavier. But not uncomfortable.
“Can I stay?” Lando asked, almost shy.
Oscar gave the faintest smile and leaned forward. Gaze flicking between Lando’s eyes and his mouth.
Their lips hovered—not touching, just near enough to count. Oscar’s breath was warm against his skin, and when he finally spoke, it was a whisper between heartbeats.
“Sure,” he murmured, voice brushing Lando’s lips. And then… he pulled back.
No kiss. No contact.
Lando didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes stayed fixed on Oscar, wide and stunned, chest barely rising. Like he didn’t know whether to reach forward or step back. Like his entire body was holding its breath.
He said nothing.
He was burning.
Minutes later, they lay side by side. Not touching, not talking. Just breathing. Just being.
In the quiet, they both stared at the ceiling.
Eventually, Lando whispered into the dark—
“I’m scared of falling behind you.”
Oscar’s voice was quiet, almost warm.
“Then don’t chase me. Just run with me.”
Lando didn’t answer. But he reached out—slow, uncertain—and found Oscar’s hand in the space between them.
Oscar laced their fingers together.
And neither of them let go.