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It started like any other race. Tight corners, slick asphalt, Yuki’s pulse syncing with the roar of the engine. His engineer’s voice crackled through the headset — calm, clipped, constant. Then, halfway through lap thirty-four, the tone changed.
“Yellow flag, turn ten. Big impact.”
Yuki’s brows knit. Turn ten. That’s where Oscar was ahead.
He slowed through the sector, eyes darting toward the corner. For a split second, through smoke and the spray of gravel, he saw the orange of McLaren’s chassis — mangled against the barrier, halo half-buried. And then the marshals were running. The team stayed silent.
“Is he—?”
“Keep focus, Yuki. We’ll update you.”
He swallowed hard. That meant they didn’t know.
The rest of the race passed in fragments — pit stops he didn’t remember, calls he didn’t answer, laps that blurred into grey. When he finally crossed the finish line, there was no cheer in his voice, no smile, just that sick, empty hum in his chest.
The moment he climbed out of the car, he didn’t even go to debrief. He tore off his gloves, still shaking, and made for the medical centre.
They stopped him at the door. “He’s being transported.”
“Where?”
“Local hospital.”
Yuki didn’t think twice. The drive there felt longer than the entire race. The hotel was supposed to be waiting, the interviews, the photos — none of it mattered.
When he finally saw him, Oscar was pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, hooked to monitors that beeped in cruel rhythm. Yuki stood there, helmet still in hand, throat tight.
“Hey,” he said softly, like his voice could reach wherever Oscar was. “You scared everyone, y’know.”
He pulled a chair up, sat beside the bed. For a long while, he didn’t speak. Just listened — to the faint mechanical beeps, to his own uneven breathing.
Then, because the silence hurt too much, he started talking.
“Remember after Bahrain? You said you wanted sushi next time we were in Japan. You still owe me that.” His voice cracked, quiet and angry all at once. “Don’t make me eat it alone, idiot.”
The words spilled out faster after that — jumbled pieces of thoughts, things he didn’t even mean to say. Jokes. Swears. Pleas. He wasn’t even sure Oscar could hear him.
When a nurse came in to check the monitors, Yuki turned away, blinking fast. “He’ll wake up soon,” he said — not like he believed it, but because he needed to.
She nodded kindly. “He’s strong.”
Yuki laughed once, hollow. “Yeah. He is.”
He stayed until the first light of morning crept through the blinds, painting everything gold and tired. He hadn’t slept. His body ached. But he didn’t leave — not until Oscar’s hand twitched, just barely, against the sheet.
And for the first time all night, Yuki let himself breathe.