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The car was in the barriers before Oscar even knew what was happening.
Qualifying had always been one of his strongest suits — precise, unflappable, threading a lap with surgical calm while chaos unfolded around him. But in Baku, precision wasn’t enough. The street circuit had teeth, and tonight, it sunk them in deep.
One wrong brush with the wall. One fraction of a second too greedy on entry. Carbon fibre shattering upon impact — and then silence, broken only by his own ragged breathing over the radio.
Sorry. That’s on me.
He hated how calm his voice sounded. Hated that he could hear the engineers scrambling in his ears, while he sat there, buckled in the wreck of what should have been a front-row lap.
They wheeled the car back through the paddock like any rookie who’d overcooked it. Cameras caught every angle: the clipped walk, the set jaw, the refusal to give them anything real. He knew how it would play online. Piastri cracks under pressure. McLaren golden boy falters.
He didn’t let it show. He never did.
But when the lights went out on Sunday, his heart was still tight with the memory of it.
And then came turn five.
Oscar felt it the moment the tyres stopped turning — a skid, a slid, the kind of adrenaline that usually lived only in simulations. He fought it, instinct taking over, hands moving faster than thought. For a moment, he thought he’d saved it.
Then came the wall.
The impact jolted through his body, harness biting into his shoulders, helmet rattling. The car crumpled against concrete, orange and black stuck in the wall.
The silence after was worse than the crash.
“—Oscar? Are you okay?” His engineer’s voice, tight with something unspoken.
He forced his voice steady. “I’m fine.”
But inside, something cracked.
Not because of the pain — he was unhurt. Not even because of the car — mechanics could rebuild it.
Because it was lap one. After crashing in qualifying. Because he could already see the points bleeding away, the chance to secure the constructor’s championship edging further from his grasp.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him. Not to them. Not now.
Once he was out of the car, Oscar stripped off his gloves. A marshal offered their seat and their phone to watch the race on. He avoided the cameras, not wanting anyone to see his face, not yet.
Lando was still out there, running seventh, scrapping with RB and Ferrari, the team now only focusing on one driver.
Slowly, half way through the race, he made his way back to the garage to get changed and start on media duties. He stared at the screens, watching orange pixels crawl around the track, pretending his chest wasn’t caving in.
When Lando crossed the line in P7, the cheer from the team was muted, tired. Nobody said the word championship.
Oscar sat perfectly still. His jaw ached from clenching.
Don’t show it. Don’t give them anything.
But inside, all he could hear was the echo of tyres skidding, locking up, over and over, a loop of failure he couldn’t silence.
The media pen was hell.
He stood beneath the bright lights, microphones shoved toward him, lenses clicking like gunfire. His race suit was still streaked from the marshals’ hands, his hair plastered with sweat under his cap.
Questions came fast, sharp, unrelenting:
“What happened out there?”
“Second crash in two days — is pressure getting to you?”
“Does this compromise your championship chances?”
Oscar answered each one with the same clipped, neutral tone.
“Unfortunate mistake.”
“Just pushed a bit too hard.”
“Of course it hurts the fight, but we’ll come back stronger.”
He kept his face smooth, voice flat, eyes distant. A perfect mask.
The journalists smelled blood, but he gave them nothing. He wouldn’t.
By the time the last microphone lowered, his chest felt scraped raw from holding everything back. He forced himself to smile, tight and shallow, before walking away.
Lando was waiting just past the barriers, cap pulled low, jaw set. Seventh wasn’t much to celebrate. He looked wrung out, his papaya suit dark with sweat, but his gaze flicked immediately to Oscar.
“You good?” he asked under his breath, quiet enough no cameras caught it.
Oscar nodded once. Too quick. “Fine.”
Lando’s eyes lingered, searching, but he didn’t push. Not here.
The debrief was worse.
Andrea Stella’s voice was calm, even, but the weight in every word pressed like stone.
“Seventh is points, yes, but far from where we need to be. Oscar — two crashes in one weekend is… unusual. We cannot afford more weekends like this. Not at this stage.”
Oscar sat perfectly still, hands folded tight in his lap. His nails cut into his palms, but his face gave nothing away.
Andrea moved on, discussing tyre degradation, pit stop timings, aero adjustments. The words blurred. Oscar’s ears rang with the same phrase: We cannot afford more weekends like this.
He could feel Lando beside him, tense but silent. Could feel the engineers’ eyes flicker toward him and away again.
When the meeting ended, the team filed out slowly, subdued. No one clapped shoulders or cracked jokes like usual. The room was too heavy for that.
Oscar lingered, staring at the telemetry screens even after they shut off. His reflection looked back at him — pale, hollow-eyed, a stranger in papaya.
“Osc,” Lando said softly. “Come on.”
Oscar rose without a word.
They walked back through the paddock together. Fans still lingered at the fences, shouting their names, holding out flags and pens. Oscar forced himself to wave, to smile, to sign a cap. His mask was flawless.
But the moment the hotel door shut behind them, silence fell like a hammer.
Oscar’s shoulders slumped. His jaw clenched. He dropped the cap he’d been holding onto the nearest table and pressed a hand to his eyes, just for a second, before forcing himself upright again.
Lando saw it. He always saw it.
The hotel room was too quiet.
No mechanics, no engineers, no cameras. Just four walls, a bed, and the hum of the air conditioning.
Oscar sat on the edge of the mattress, still in his team hoodie, hands limp against his knees. He stared at the carpet like it held the answers he couldn’t find on track.
Lando closed the door softly behind him. He’d followed, of course. He always did.
“You don’t have to stay,” Oscar said, voice flat. He didn’t look up.
“Yeah, I do.” Lando’s tone was too gentle, too knowing. He crossed the room, crouching in front of Oscar so their eyes were level. “Talk to me.”
Oscar’s chest tightened. He shook his head, pressing his lips together.
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Bullshit,” Lando whispered. “You’re carrying this like it’s only yours.”
Oscar’s hands curled into fists. His throat burned. “It is mine. I’m the one who crashed. Twice. I’m the one who—” His voice cracked. “—who’s ruining everything.”
Lando didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. He just reached up, pried one fist open, and held Oscar’s hand in his own.
The contact broke him.
Hot tears welled up, spilling before he could stop them. He bowed his head, shoulders shaking, every ounce of restraint crumbling.
Lando moved instantly, sliding onto the bed beside him, pulling him into his chest.
Oscar choked on a breath, clutching at Lando’s hoodie, pressing his face into the soft fabric.
“You’re not ruining anything,” Lando murmured into his hair. “You’re human. You made mistakes. That’s it.”
Oscar’s breath hitched, desperate and uneven. “What if it costs us? What if I can’t—what if—”
“Stop.” Lando’s voice was firm, but quiet. He pressed a kiss to Oscar’s temple, lingering there. “You’re still here. You’re still the championship leader. We’re still in this fight. I don’t care what anyone else says.”
Oscar shuddered, sinking further into him.
They stayed like that, tangled on the edge of the bed. Lando’s arm wrapped around his waist, thumb brushing circles over his hip. His free hand stroked through Oscar’s damp hair, slow and steady.
Eventually, Oscar tilted his head just enough to meet Lando’s eyes. His lashes were clumped with tears, cheeks flushed, but there was something vulnerable, almost fragile, in the way he searched Lando’s face.
Lando leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
Oscar did — shaky, uneven, but real.
And when another wave of guilt threatened, Lando kissed his forehead again. Slow, steady, grounding.
Not asking for more. Not needing more. Just being there.
For the first time all weekend, Oscar let himself believe he wasn’t carrying it alone.
Out of nowhere, Oscar’s words hit Lando like a punch.
“I ruined everything,” Oscar repeated, voice raw, voice fragile, the weight of the entire championship pressing down on him. “I’ve ruined the season, the car, the points… everything. Just by crashing.”
Lando’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard, knuckles gripping Oscar’s hoodie. He knew the exact feeling. He’d been here before — crash at Austria last season, Canada and Zandvoort both this season, dumb decisions here and mechanical failures there, points evaporating in a heartbeat, the world thinking he was careless. He hadn’t told Oscar; he hadn’t wanted to. But he remembered.
“You… you don’t get to say that,” Lando said, voice breaking slightly. “Do you know what it’s like to think you’ve thrown it all away? I know, Oscar. I’ve been there. And I’m still here. And you’re still here. This… this isn’t the end.”
Oscar blinked at him, stunned. His shoulders shook. “But—”
“No, listen,” Lando cut in, pressing a finger gently against Oscar’s chest, steadying him. “I crashed too. Last season This season. I know what it feels like to feel that everything’s over. I know the guilt. I know the panic. I know the… the shaking. And I can tell you — it’s not over. Not for us. Not this season. Not yet.”
The words sank in slowly. Oscar’s hands, which had been gripping his knees so tightly they were white, finally unclenched. He let them hover, uncertain, until Lando took them in his own.
They were trembling.
Lando leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Oscar’s again. This time, it wasn’t just grounding — it was a promise. He whispered, “We’re still in this. Together. I don’t care about the points right now and you shouldn’t either. You’re not alone in this.”
Tears spilled freely down Oscar’s cheeks now, unchecked, raw. He buried his face in Lando’s shoulder. The tiny shock of heat, the rhythm of Lando’s breathing, the press of their fingers intertwined — it reminded him that he didn’t have to carry it all. Not now. Not ever.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, voice muffled. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have—”
“You can’t undo it. But I can remind you — we’ll fix it together. One race at a time.” Lando’s thumb brushed over the back of Oscar’s hand, slow and careful. “I’ve got you, always. Even if the whole world thinks we’re done.”
Oscar finally lifted his head, eyes red, shimmering. He searched Lando’s face, desperate, afraid, needing affirmation. Lando kissed his forehead, softly at first, then longer, pressing him closer. “See?” Lando murmured. “You’re not alone. Not ever.”
Oscar’s lips quivered, but he let himself finally melt, the tension in his chest loosening, his shoulders sagging as he rested against Lando.
They stayed that way for what felt like forever. Foreheads pressed, hands clasped tightly, breathing syncing, the quiet hum of the hotel wrapping around them like a cocoon. The championship wasn’t theirs yet, the points weren’t safe, but for one moment, the world stopped demanding perfection.
And in that small, private corner of chaos, Oscar realized something crucial:
Crashes happen. Mistakes happen. Pain happens. But love — the steady, patient, undeniable kind — could carry them through anything.
Lando’s thumb stroked his knuckles. “Singapore,” he whispered, “we try again. Together. Nothing’s finished yet. You hear me?”
Oscar nodded slowly, letting himself believe it. Just a little.
“Together,” he echoed. And for the first time in two nights, the tight knot in his chest loosened. The smallest flicker of hope glimmered between them.
They stayed like that until the room fell dark, holding onto each other, a promise sealed in quiet kisses, soft touches, and the knowledge that even when the season tried to break them, they would not break alone.