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Oscar’s mornings always started the same way. He would open his eyes, blearily blinking at the ceiling of whatever bedroom he currently called home, and begin the inventory. Today: a bruised shoulder, a scraped palm, and two matching bruises on his knees. A sigh left his lips before he even sat up, a dull ache radiating through his joints. He knew which injuries were his.
The aching rib from where a boot had landed in the locker room last week—that was his. The faint cigarette burn on the inside of his bicep from the incident behind the gym—his. The scars littering his forarms – also his. Most of the marks on his body belonged to cruel hands and whispered threats, shoved lockers and kicked backs. School had never been kind to Oscar. He moved through hallways like a ghost, shoulders hunched, always bracing for the next blow. Teachers didn’t see it, or they just didn’t care. At home, his parents were distant at best, dismissive at worst. "You’re just sensitive," his father would say. "Toughen up." So he learned to toughen up in secret. Learned how to patch his own wounds, how to hold his breath and pretend he wasn’t breaking. That was easier than facing cruelty at home as well.
Self-harm became a ritual. Quiet, controlled. A way to remind himself that he was still real—still had some control over his pain. Over anything really. He felt always bad after it though, knowing it wasn’t just his pain anymore.
Sometimes, the injuries came from someone else. They were different—smaller, less deliberate. Like today’s bruised knee. It hadn’t come from anyone at school. He’d woken up with it, dull and tender, the skin already purpling. He pressed his fingers gently to it now, heart heavy. His soulmate. Somewhere out there, someone had taken a tumble, or knocked into something, or just existed too recklessly. It had always been like this. Shared injuries. Shared pain.
Oscar didn’t know who they were—didn’t want to, if he was being honest. Knowing them would mean having to see the reflection of what he’d done. The pain he couldn’t always stop himself from causing. He didn’t want to see their face twisted in pain that he had created. But still, he wondered. Was his soulmate okay? Were they scared when those sharper injuries appeared—when they felt the sting of something that didn’t come from a fall or a trip? A lump rose in his throat. He didn’t want to hurt them. But sometimes, hurting himself felt like the only option. The only thing keeping him from slipping even more into a darkness where light was rare.
The hope he clung too was London. His light in the darkness. A university across the globe. A city big enough to disappear into. A place where no one knew his name or the bruises he carried. A fresh start. Oscar glanced at his packed suitcase, sitting by the door. It wasn’t to far away anymore and he found himself being ecited for it. Because maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something better. Maybe in London, he could stop hurting. Maybe he could stop hurting them.
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Lando Norris was a walking disaster, and his friends made sure he knew it. "Mate, I swear, you need to wear knee pads just to survive a Tuesday," Max laughed as Lando limped into the campus café with a fresh scrape on his shin. "I tripped over absolutely nothing. Again," Lando replied, throwing his arms up. "I'm starting to think gravity has a personal vendetta." They all laughed, including Lando. It was easier that way. He was clumsy—hopelessly, incurably clumsy. Bumping into tables, knocking over chairs, tripping up curbs. He could turn just about any flat surface into a hazard zone. Always has. And yet, he always knew which bruises were his. The scraped knuckles from slamming into a doorframe. The scabbed knees from taking corners too fast on his skateboard. The coffee burns from working at the café down the block. They were familiar, expected.
But some injuries didn’t fit. Like the deep purple bruise that had appeared on his ribs last week. He hadn’t fallen that hard. And the thin, stinging cuts that came out of nowhere, no accident or fumble to explain them. That was his soulmate. He didn’t know who they were. Didn’t even know if he wanted to know. Because as concerned as he was—and god, he was always worried—it wasn’t like he could do anything about it. He tried not to think about the worse injuries. The ones that felt deliberate. Sharp. Frightening. The bruised rib had kept him up at night. Not because of the pain, but because of what it implied. What kind of life did his soulmate live, where that kind of injury was normal? But he smiled anyway. Joked with his friends. He couldn’t let the heaviness show.
His days were full anyways—Design lectures in the mornings, work at the café in the afternoons, coffee with his mates afterward. London life was a beautiful kind of chaos, and Lando thrived in it, even if it meant accumulating bruises like badges. Still, sometimes, when the lights were off and the laughter faded, he’d run his fingers over the cuts he didn’t earn and whisper into the dark: “Who are you? And are you safe?”
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Oscar clutched the handle of his suitcase with both hands as he stood outside his new dorm room, heart pounding in his chest. The corridor was quiet, sunlight leaking through a tall window at the end of the hall, and his knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping the plastic. This was it. London. University. A new beginning.
He knocked hesitantly, and the door swung open with a sharp creak. A blond guy in a Red Bull hoodie leaned against the doorframe, blinking down at him with a crooked smile. “Oscar?” Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Oscar Piastri.” “Max. Max Verstappen,” the guy said, stepping aside. “Sorry about the chaos. I was trying to clean up, but then everyone decided this was the perfect time to hang out in my room.” Oscar stepped inside, suitcase rolling behind him. The dorm wasn’t huge, but it was comfortable enough—two beds, two desks, and a window overlooking the street below. And as promised, chaos.
Four more people were squeezed into the space. On one bed sat a ridiculously pretty boy with a soft accent who looked like he belonged in a magazine spread. “You must be Oscar,” he said with a warm smile. “I’m Charles. Language studies.” Next to him, a tall student with dyed streaks in his hair waved casually. “Alex Albon. Architecture. Welcome to the madhouse.”, he winked. “George Russell,” another said, offering a handshake. He was sharp-eyed and well-dressed. “Business major. We’re not always this disorganized, I promise.”, with a light chuckle. And then there was one more. Crouched on the floor, trying to peel a bandaid off its wrapper with his teeth. He looked up, grinning. “Hey. I’m Lando. Design student. I crash into things for a living, just a heads up.”
Oscar blinked, just a little stunned. He hadn’t expected to be welcomed like this. Not with jokes and easy smiles. Not with warmth. “Nice to meet you all,” he said quietly. “Mate, don’t be so formal. You live here now,” Max said, already tossing some of his things into drawers to make space. “That means you’re part of the group, like it or not.” Oscar smiled faintly and shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Um, well—yeah. I’m Oscar. I just flew in yesterday, so I’m still kind of jetlagged. I’m studying engineering, first year. I… like Formula 1. And silence, mostly.” That made them laugh—genuinely—and he felt the tight knot in his chest loosen a bit. “Come get coffee with us later,” Charles added, patting the empty space beside him. “We’ve got the best café on campus thanks to Lando.” Lando gave a dramatic bow from the floor, nearly knocking into the desk chair. “I make coffee and injuries happen.” Oscar laughed at that, the sound surprising even himself. For the first time in a long while, something warm settled under his ribs. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe London really could be a new beginning.
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Oscar and Lando fell into step with each other faster than either expected. What started as casual conversations after lectures and occasional coffee runs turned into late nights sprawled across Oscar’s bed, laptops open, music humming low through his speakers. Lando was like a burst of colour in Oscar’s carefully muted world. He was chaotic, animated, and loud in the best way possible. And somehow, he made Oscar feel safe.
Max pretended to groan every time he walked in and saw Lando stretched out on Oscar’s bed again. “Do you two even remember this is my room too?” “Technically, it’s half your room,” Lando shot back without missing a beat. “Technically, you’re here more than Oscar,” Max muttered, tossing a pillow at him.
The group caught on quickly, teasing them mercilessly. Charles would wiggle his eyebrows whenever the two sat too close, and Alex had once started a betting pool on how long it would take them to kiss. Oscar rolled his eyes, but he didn’t mind. Not really. Not when Lando laughed and stayed anyway.
Over time, Lando noticed something strange. He still got hurt—nothing would change that. But now, when he checked his bruises, they were all accounted for. Every single mark made sense. Until he banged his knee hard enough to make him limp for a day, and saw Oscar rubbing at his own knee the next morning. Same spot. Same bruise. Lando froze. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask. But something shifted. He watched Oscar more closely after that. The way he flinched sometimes when people got too loud. The way he tugged at his sleeves on bad days. The way he smiled, but it didn’t always reach his eyes.
That night, he sat across from Charles at the café after his shift. “Can I ask you something?” Charles looked up from his textbook, curious. “Of course.” “You and Max. You’re soulmates, right?” Charles blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. We figured it out about a year ago. Why?” Lando hesitated. “How do you… handle it? When he gets hurt. Or when you do?” Charles gave a soft sigh, closing his book. “It’s hard, sometimes. But we talk. We try to be careful. We trust each other. There is no secret to it, I guess. You just make it work, especially when someone gets hurt.” He tilted his head. “Why? Did something happen?” Lando shook his head slowly. “No. Not really. Just… thinking.” But his thoughts kept circling back to Oscar. And the matching bruise on his knee.
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Oscar tried. He went to lectures. He turned in assignments. He replied to texts, even if they were short. He still sat with the group when they had lunch on the steps outside the engineering building—but his smile was quieter now, and his laugh came less often. No one said anything at first. Maybe they thought he was just tired, or busy.
But Max noticed it before anyone else. They were sitting in their shared room one evening—Max finishing up an assignment, Oscar staring blankly at his laptop screen. The light from the desk lamp cast heavy shadows under Oscar’s eyes. “Are you okay?” Max asked, closing his laptop. Oscar blinked and looked up. “Yeah. Just tired.” It was a lie, and he hated how easily it came. Max frowned, but didn’t push. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything and you can always talk to me.” Oscar nodded, already turning back to the screen he couldn’t focus on.
A few nights later, everything caved in. It wasn’t any one thing. It never was. Just a slow accumulation—like pressure building behind a dam. A grade that came back lower than expected. A missed bus in the rain. A coffee spilled down his front. Charles’ concerned look. Max’s worried tone. Oscar had been holding it all together with fragile threads. He found himself in the bathroom, the familiar weight of the razorblade between his fingers. Cold. Comforting in its certainty. But when the first few cuts bloomed red along his arm, something cracked. Not relief. Not control. Just shame. And guilt. And the crushing, suffocating weight of knowing he wasn’t just hurting himself. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he sank to the floor, shoulders shaking. The blade slipped from his fingers and clattered into the sink. A small puddle of blood formed on the tile beside him. He didn’t even hear the door open.
“Max?” Lando’s voice echoed down the hallway. “You left your—” Silence. Then footsteps. Rushed. Lando stopped dead in the doorway of the bathroom. Oscar looked up, eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. He was curled in on himself, blood trailing down his forearm, pooling on the floor. The air was heavy with the scent of metal and tears and blood. And Lando felt it—sharp, hot pain slicing across his own arm. But he barely registered it. “Oscar,” he breathed. He was on the floor in a heartbeat, pulling Oscar into his arms. The other boy didn’t fight it. Just sobbed harder, face buried against Lando’s chest. “I’m sorry,” Oscar choked out. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—” “Shhh. Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Lando whispered, voice shaking. “I’ve got you.”
He reached for the towel, pressing it gently to the bleeding cuts. Oscar winced but didn’t move away. They stayed there like that for what felt like forever—Lando holding him close, hands gentle, heart pounding. Eventually, when the bleeding had slowed and Oscar’s sobs quieted to hiccups, Lando stood and found the first aid kit Max kept under the sink. He cleaned the wounds carefully, wordlessly. Oscar watched him, ashamed, but too exhausted to protest. When the last bandage was smoothed into place, Lando glanced at his own arm—matching cuts now pink and raw.
He gave a broken laugh. “We match. How poetic.” Oscar looked away. But Lando reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said quietly. Oscar blinked. “What?” Lando met his eyes. “My soulmate. I’m glad it’s you.” And for the first time in weeks, Oscar let himself cry—not out of pain, but because for once, he didn’t feel alone.
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They sat together on the bathroom floor for a long time, knees brushing, the air heavy but no longer suffocating. Oscar leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shaky. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said finally. His voice was raw, like it had been scraped clean. “That’s the part that kills me the most.” Lando glanced over at him, still holding his hand. “I know. I figured… someone wouldn’t choose this.” Oscar laughed softly, bitterly. “No. I didn’t choose it. The bullying started when I was eleven. I was just… different. Quieter. Easier to pick on.” He swallowed hard. “At first it was names. Shoved in the hallway. Then it got worse. Bruises. Split lips. Scars. I’d come home and my parents would ask what I did to provoke it. I stopped asking for help, after the first few times.”
Lando’s grip tightened around his fingers. “I kept thinking… maybe if I changed, maybe if I just stayed invisible. But it never worked. So I left. London was my escape plan. Engineering gave me an excuse. But really, I just wanted an out and to start over.” Oscar looked down at his lap. “The self-harm… started in high school. I tried to stop so many times. I thought I was doing better here. Meeting Max, the others. Meeting you.” He smiled sadly. “You made things feel lighter. A pop of color I didn’t know was missing.”
Lando’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to carry that alone.” Oscar shrugged. “I didn’t want to burden anyone. Especially not someone I hadn’t even met yet.” Lando brushed a thumb across the back of Oscar’s hand.
“I’ve always been a walking disaster,” he said, tone somewhere between sheepish and fond. “Bruises, cuts, stubbed toes, cracked phones—you name it. My friends used to joke I was testing gravity personally.” Oscar snorted. “They’re not wrong you know.” “I’ve always tried to be careful, though. Because I knew someone out there would feel it too. My soulmate. I’d fall and think, ‘Shit, I hope that didn’t ruin their day.’” He lifted his arm slightly. “But now these? These mean something else entirelly.” Oscar looked at the bandaged lines, then at his own. “Yeah.”
They were silent for a moment. “The clumsy one and the one who hurts to feel something,” Lando said softly. “It’s kind of poetic. In a messed up way.” Oscar chuckled weakly. “A little too on the nose, don’t you think.” “Ironic, though. You always got hurt because of others. I just couldn’t keep my feet on the ground.” “Maybe we’re meant to teach each other balance,” Oscar murmured. Lando gave him a small, genuine smile.
Oscar hesitated, then gently turned Lando’s hand over and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist—just over the fading mark of a shared scar. Lando’s breath caught, but he didn’t pull away. Later, when they curled up together in Oscar’s bed, exhaustion pulling at their limbs, it wasn’t the kind of tired that hurt. It was the kind that settled in after a storm. Warmth. Safety. Presence. For the first time in a long while, Oscar didn’t feel the urge to run.
When Max came back later that night, he stopped in the doorway of their room. Oscar and Lando were asleep, tangled together under the covers. Peaceful. Max smiled faintly. He glanced at the desk—where a new polaroid sat. Charles must’ve snuck it in at some point. It showed the entire group, laughing around a picnic blanket, Lando making a ridiculous face, Oscar mid-laugh beside him. Underneath, in Charles’ handwriting, it read: Found family. Max stepped back, quietly closing the door behind him.