Archive of Our Own

The coffee machine hisses, and Oscar watches steam curl toward the ceiling of his Monaco apartment.

It’s 9:47 a.m. on a Friday in mid-December, the first Friday in eight months that doesn't feel like a prelude to chaos. He has no FP1 to do or briefings to go to, no general sense of anticipation for a countdown to lights out. It's just a quiet Friday morning. It's strange in its softness, almost suspicious, like the universe has forgotten to assign him something urgent.

His suitcase from Abu Dhabi is still half-unpacked by the bedroom door. There's a garment bag draped over the back of the couch—the Tom Ford tuxedo he wore to the FIA gala, still in its dry cleaning plastic. On the kitchen counter, barely fitting: the World Drivers' Championship trophy.

It's smaller than he expected, yet somehow heavier. He'd lifted it on stage in Uzbekistan last week, held it above his head while cameras flashed and the room applauded, and he'd felt… what? Pride, obviously. Relief. But also something else. Something incomplete.

He'd won. He was champion. But it felt like putting together a puzzle and finding out you're missing a piece.

Lily appears from the bedroom, hair twisted up in a clip, wearing one of his old McLaren shirts and leggings. She looks impossibly put-together for someone who's been awake for less than twenty minutes.

"You're staring at the trophy again," she observes, reaching for the spare coffee mug.

"No I'm not."

"You are. You do this thing where you look at it like you're waiting for it to confirm something."

Oscar huffs. "What would it confirm?"

"That you actually won." Lily pours herself coffee, adds milk, stirs. "That it's real."

He wants to argue, but she's not wrong. This whole season, something was missing. Someone was missing.

Oscar closes his eyes. Breathes in slowly.

Lando should've been there.

Not instead of Max—Oscar's grateful for Max, for the rivalry that made him better, for the respect they built. But Lando should've been there too. The three of them, fighting it out. The season they'd dreamed about, back when dreams felt possible.

Instead, Lando watched from hospital rooms and living room couches, getting weaker while Oscar got stronger, and the guilt of that—the sheer unfairness of it—sits in Oscar's chest like a stone.

Lily takes another sip of coffee. "So. Australia. This Sunday."

Oscar's brain takes a second to switch tracks. "Right. Yeah."

“I’ve been making a list,” Lily says, pulling out her phone and swiping open her notes app. She clears her throat dramatically. “Okay. So. Your sisters want us to bring proper English tea because apparently Australian tea isn’t the same anymore—”

“It’s literally the same—”

“—and your dad wants you to bring the trophy so he can take a photo with it for his mates.”

Oscar groans. “He’s going to parade it around the neighborhood.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lily says, scrolling. “Also: your mum asked if you still have that Daniel Ricciardo wine you got sent, because she wants to open it on Christmas Eve.”

Oscar blinks. “I told her that was a collector’s bottle.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘Tell Oscar to stop being stingy, he’s a world champion now.’”

His phone buzzes on the counter.

They both look at it.

Max Fewtrell: Hey mate, you around this morning? Need a favor if you're free. No pressure.

Oscar stares at the message.

Lily reads it over his shoulder. "That's Lando's Max, right? Not your Max."

"Yeah." Oscar's thumb hovers over the screen.

No pressure, Max had said. Which meant there was definitely pressure. You don't send no pressure unless there's pressure.

"You should answer," Lily says gently.

Oscar types: Yeah, I'm free. What's up?

The reply comes almost immediately.

Max Fewtrell: Could you swing by Lando's place? Just for a bit. Nothing urgent but would really appreciate it.

Oscar's chest tightens.

Nothing urgent.

That's what they'd said last time, too. Just a check-in, they'd told him in Austria. He's fine, just tired, they'd said in Singapore.

And then he'd gotten the call to come to France. The one where Max Verstappen met him at a private airfield at 2am with a face that said it's bad.

"Oscar." Lily's hand is on his arm. "You're spiraling."

"I'm not—"

"You are. I can see it." She squeezes gently. "He's probably fine. Max wouldn't say 'no pressure' if it was an emergency."

"Unless he's trying not to panic me."

"Or," Lily says patiently, "he actually needs a small favor and you're catastrophizing."

Oscar exhales. She's probably right. She's usually right.

He types: Sure, I can head over. Give me 20 minutes?

Max Fewtrell: Legend. Thanks mate. Door code's the same.

Oscar sets the phone down. Picks up his coffee. Puts it down again without drinking.

"Go," Lily says. "I'll finish the packing list. You can look it over when you're back."

"Are you sure—"

"Oscar." She turns him by the shoulders, looks him dead in the eye. "He's your friend. Go check on him. I'll be here when you get back."

He nods. Kisses her forehead. Grabs his keys and wallet.

The drive to Lando's apartment takes eight minutes.

Oscar knows because he times it. Because part of him is still calculating—if something was wrong, how fast could he get there? How fast could an ambulance get there? What's the nearest hospital?

He parks in the underground garage, takes the lift to the fourteenth floor, and stands outside Lando's door for a solid ten seconds before punching in the code.

The door swings open.

"—no, I'm serious, it's fucking ridiculous—"

Max Fewtrell's voice, exasperated and fond. Oscar steps inside, and the scene that greets him is so aggressively normal it's almost jarring.

Max is in the kitchen, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, gesturing emphatically at something. There's a grocery bag on the counter, half-unpacked. The living room is too tidy, which means someone's been cleaning compulsively.

And on the couch, wrapped in a blanket despite the heating being on full blast, is Lando.

He looks—okay. Thin, still. Pale, but not alarmingly so. Hair growing back in uneven tufts. He's wearing joggers and an oversized hoodie, and he's scrolling through his phone with the focused attention of someone absolutely not paying attention to whatever Max is saying.

Oscar exhales. Relief hits him so hard his knees almost buckle.

Lando looks up. Sees him. Grins—crooked and tired but real.

"Osc! You came."

"Yeah, Max texted—" Oscar stops. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, everything's fine—" Lando starts.

"It's not fine," Max interrupts, lowering his phone. "My ankle's fucked, Cisca's had to fly to England because Flo's gone into early labor, and I can't leave Lando alone."

Oscar blinks. "Wait, what?"

“I sprained my ankle,” Max says, lifting his foot slightly.

Oscar’s relief drains out of him in one sharp exhale. The ankle is huge, it’s swollen enough that the compression bandage can’t hide the angry puff of skin bulging above and below the wrap. The edges are mottled purple, blotches of bruising blooming like spilled ink. It looks painful just sitting there.

“Jesus, Max,” Oscar says. “That’s not a sprain, that’s… that’s a balloon with toes.”

“Yeah, well.” Max grimaces as he slowly lowers it back down, careful not to twist it. “Fell down the stairs like an absolute muppet.”

He doesn’t try to joke his way through the wince that follows.

Oscar notices.

Lando notices too—he keeps glancing toward Max’s leg with a knitted brow, the kind people use when they’re worried but too tired to fully express it.

“P’s taking me to get it looked at properly,” Max continues, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t drive, can barely walk. I can’t stay here and Cisca just got the call this morning.”

"She's fine," Lando adds quickly. "Flo, I mean. The baby's just impatient."

"And I'm not leaving you alone for a week," Max says firmly.

"I'm fine—"

"You were discharged two weeks ago."

"Two weeks is a long time. I'm basically healed."

Max gives him a look that could melt steel. Then he turns to Oscar.

"Can you stay with him? Just for a few days. A week, tops. Until Cisca gets back or I can actually walk without wanting to die."

Oscar's brain is still catching up. "You want me to—"

"I know it's a lot to ask—"

"No, I—yeah. Of course. I can stay."

Lando's head whips around. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," Oscar says. And he means it. "I'm not doing anything this week. Lily and I don't fly to Australia until Tuesday."

That's a lie. They fly Sunday. But he'll figure it out.

Max exhales like Oscar just lifted a building off his shoulders. "Thank you. Seriously. There's a binder—"

"A binder?"

"On the counter. Cisca made it. Everything you need to know—medications, schedules, warning signs, emergency contacts. It's all in there."

Oscar looks at the counter. There's a red three-ring binder, easily three inches thick, sitting next to the grocery bag.

"That's... comprehensive," he says faintly.

"Cisca's thorough." Max is already gathering his things—wallet, keys, phone charger. "Look, I know it seems like a lot, but he's doing really well. The meds are straightforward, he just needs someone here in case anything—" He stops. Recalibrates. "In case he needs anything."

In case he crashes again, Oscar hears.

"I've got it," Oscar says. "We'll be fine."

Max claps Oscar on the shoulder—grateful, exhausted, and bracing himself on just that one leg. “You’re a legend. Seriously.” He turns to Lando. “You. Behave. Take your meds. Don’t try to do anything stupid. And if you feel even slightly off, you tell Oscar. Immediately.”

“Yes, Dad,” Lando says dryly.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Max wavers for a second, shifting his weight, testing how much pressure he can put on the injured ankle. The answer is not much. He exhales sharply through his nose, like the effort alone costs him.

His phone buzzes—his girlfriend, by the look of it. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening.

“Right,” he says, defeated. “I have to go.” He reaches for his bag, winces, and steadies himself with a hand on the counter. “Oscar, call me if anything—anything—seems wrong. Even if it’s small.”

“I will.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Max nods, but he doesn’t move right away. He stands there for a beat too long, staring at Lando like he can physically will him into staying stable while he’s gone.

Finally, he pushes off the counter and limps toward the door. It’s not subtle—the uneven gait, the way his breath hitches every few steps, the way he keeps his injured foot barely touching the ground. Lando watches him with a quiet frown.

Max reaches the doorframe, looks back one more time, eyes soft and worried.

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Oscar and Lando stare at each other.

"So," Lando says eventually. "This is fun."

Oscar walks over to the counter. Picks up the binder. Opens it.

LANDO'S CARE INSTRUCTIONS – DECEMBER 2025

The first page is emergency contacts. The second page is a medication schedule. The third page is a list of warning signs highlighted in yellow.

Oscar flips through. There are tabs. Color-coded tabs. There's a section called "When to Panic vs. When to Breathe."

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

"She's very organized," Lando offers.

Oscar closes the binder. Looks at Lando—really looks at him. He's smiling, but there's something fragile underneath it. Something that says please don't make a big deal out of this.

"You're really okay?" Oscar asks quietly.

"Yeah," Lando says. "I am. I promise."

Oscar nods. He wants to believe it.

He's just not sure he does.

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out.

Max Verstappen: Just got a call from Fewtrell. I'm on my way.

Oscar blinks. Types back: You don't have to—

Max Verstappen: Already in the car. Be there in ten.

Oscar looks up at Lando. "Max is coming too."

Lando raises an eyebrow. "Verstappen?"

"Yeah."

A pause. Then Lando grins—wider this time, more genuine.

"So it's going to be the three of us, then."

"Looks like it."

Lando leans back against the couch, pulling the blanket tighter. "Well. This should be interesting."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "It should be."

Oscar sits at Lando's kitchen counter, the binder open in front of him, and reads.

He's always been good at this—absorbing information, processing it, organizing it into actionable steps. It's what made him good at karting when he was nine, good at school when everyone said he couldn't do both racing and academics, good at F1 when they said he was too calm to be fast.

So he reads the binder the way he used to read exam notes: methodically, carefully, highlighting the important bits in his mind.

Oscar counts. Seven different medications. Some twice a day, some three times. He pulls out his phone, starts setting alarms. 8am. 8pm. Noon. 6pm. Before bed.

He flips to page 18. Then 22. Then 25. There's a section on infection control (wash hands frequently, no sick visitors, clean surfaces daily). A section on nutrition (high-calorie, high-protein, avoid raw foods). A section on physical activity (short walks encouraged, no heavy lifting, watch for dizziness).

Page 34 has a hand-drawn diagram of "Lando's typical daily energy levels" that looks like a roller coaster—high in the morning, crashing by noon, slightly better in the evening, dead by 8pm.

Page 38 lists every doctor, every specialist, every clinic number. Hematology. Infectious disease. Nephrology. Cardiology.

Oscar keeps reading. Page 45. Page 52. Page 61.

The binder is 89 pages long.

By page 70, Oscar's chest feels tight. By page 80, his hands are shaking slightly.

He's read exam syllabi that were less comprehensive. He's read technical regulations that were less detailed. This isn't a care guide. This is a medical textbook for keeping one specific person alive.

And they've handed it to him like it's a weekend babysitting gig.

He's reading the section on sepsis warning signs for the third time when the door opens.

Max Verstappen walks in like he owns the place—joggers, Red Bull hoodie (old one, from 2021), carrying a duffel bag. He spots Oscar at the counter, sees the binder, and smirks.

"Already studying?"

Oscar looks up from the binder. "Have you seen this thing? It's—"

"A novel. Yeah." Max drops his bag by the couch.

 "I skimmed it. You're not going to memorize it, mate. Sitting here stress-reading a medical binder isn't going to help anyone," Max says. "Especially not you."

"Especially not me," Lando echoes. "Because then he'll start hovering. And then he'll start asking me if I've taken my meds every thirty minutes. And then he'll start making spreadsheets."

Max laughs under his breath. "I like you better now that you're conscious. Much more entertaining."

Lando smiles—small, tired, but real. "Well, someone in this room has to be."

Oscar wants to argue but stops when Lando shifts again, breath hitching for half a second before smoothing out. It’s tiny, but Oscar catches it. Max does too. Lando pretends he doesn’t notice either of them noticing.

He changes the subject.

"Anyway," Lando says, "the point of tonight is to not blow up my mum’s phone. She's already in full meltdown mode."

"How is Flo, actually?" Max asks, dropping into the armchair with a grunt. "Max said the baby's coming early?"

Lando’s face lights up, and for a moment he looks more alive than he has all night. "Yeah! She’s—god, she’s doing great. Terrified, obviously, but excited. The baby wasn’t due until January, but apparently little mate decided December was better."

"How early?" Oscar asks.

"Three weeks. Basically full-term. Doctors say it's fine. Mum’s the one freaking out." He pauses. "She’s flown over this morning."

"And you can't go yet?" Max asks, softer now.

Lando shakes his head, jaw tightening. "Not even close. Monday’s the earliest they'll even consider it." He picks at a loose thread on the blanket, avoiding their eyes. "I can’t just get on a plane because something’s happening at home. There’s a whole process. Bloodwork, scans, a clearance consult, the immuno guy has to sign off… it’s a whole checklist. And it wasn’t scheduled for this week."

Oscar leans forward. "But if everything looks good—"

"If everything looks good, maybe," Lando says, cutting him off gently. "But that’s the point. They won’t look until Monday. That’s the appointment. That’s the protocol. I can’t fast-track it, I can’t call and beg, I can’t just show up and hope they’ll squeeze me in. They told me I have to stick to the plan."

He exhales shakily, the frustration bleeding through.

"I want to be there. Obviously I want to be there. But wanting doesn’t change the steps. I have to do them in order or I don’t go anywhere."

His gaze drops to the coffee table, voice thinning.

"I just want to go home for Christmas. That’s all. But… not this weekend. Not without clearance. Not before they tell me I’m okay."

Max leans back, arms crossed, expression settling into something resolute.

"You’ll get cleared," he says, like it’s fact, not hope, like a line he’s probably delivered a dozen times already. "You’re doing everything right. They’ll see that."

Oscar shifts closer, voice quieter but sure.

"And until then," he says, "you’ve got us. We’re basically the next best thing."

Lando looks between them—Max solid as a brick wall, Oscar warm and earnest—and something in his face softens.

He grins, small and crooked but real. "Thank you," he says, and it’s not casual this time. It lands heavy and honest. 

"Really. Thank you."

—

Oscar drives back across Monaco with an overnight bag thrown into the passenger seat and a knot settling low in his stomach. Lily had taken the news better than he expected—she’d even laughed when he said he might need to push Sunday’s flight—but the guilt still sits heavy. She promised to update his family, tell them there might be a detour before Australia, and that they shouldn’t wait up for him.

Her last words were simple: Go. He needs you.

So he goes.

By the time Oscar lets himself into Lando’s apartment, the place is dim and quiet. It’s not even eight, but Lando is half-asleep on the couch, the TV casting soft blue light over the room. His eyes flutter open when Oscar steps inside, then drift shut again just as quickly.

Max meets Oscar in the kitchen, already rinsing bowls in the sink.

Oscar pauses in the doorway, baffled.

“Are you—doing dishes?”

Max doesn’t even look up. “Don’t start.” He grabs a towel and wipes his hands. “He took his meds. I got him to eat something first. He fought me like a toddler, but whatever.”

“Hey,” Lando calls weakly from the couch. “I’m right here.”

“And I stand by it,” Max says, not missing a beat.

Oscar drops his bag by the counter. “You two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Max answers. “We’re taking the spare bedroom. But one of us should check on him every couple hours. Just in case.”

Lando groans. “Oh my god, can everyone stop acting like I’m still on life support? I just want to sleep. I don't want hovering.”

Max folds his arms. “You’ll get hovering and you’ll like it.”

Oscar snorts and makes his way to the couch. He sits down beside Lando, pretending to care about whatever show is playing, something bright and loud and not at all suited to someone drifting off. Lando shifts slightly to make room, eyelids half-lowered, too tired to pretend he’s watching.

Max eventually comes over too, dropping heavily onto the other end of the couch like he’s claiming territory.

For a while, none of them talk. The TV murmurs. The apartment hums. Lando’s breathing evens out.

Then, out of nowhere, Lando breaks the silence.

“You know it’s crazy,” he says, eyes still on the screen. “Between the three of us? We’ve got… what… five world championships sitting in this room?”

Oscar blinks. Max snorts.

“Sure, buddy,” Max says. “If that helps your ego.”

Lando waves a limp hand. “I’m just saying. FIA gala would’ve been sick. I wish I could’ve gone.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Max says. “It was ninety-nine percent snooze. In—what was it—Uzbekistan? Middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah, but the one percent part is pretty historic,” Lando's voice goes quieter. "First time Oscar's up there. First time you're not with Red Bull. That's... that's kind of a big deal."

Oscar's chest tightens. He doesn't say anything. It really felt wrong, standing on that stage, holding the trophy, looking out at a room full of people celebrating—and the whole time, all Oscar could think was: This isn't how it was supposed to happen.

He wasn't supposed to win alone. He was supposed to fight Lando for it. They were supposed to be Senna and Prost, the legendary McLaren rivalry, pushing each other to the absolute limit.

Lando sinks back into the cushions. "Sorry. I just—I'm proud of you. Both of you. Even if the season was weird."

"Weird is generous," Max mutters.

"Understatement of the century," Oscar agrees.

Lando smiles faintly. "Yeah. But you're both here. And I'm here. And that's—" He pauses. "That's something."

Oscar doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't know how to explain the complicated knot of relief and guilt and fear that's been sitting in his chest since Qatar. Relief that Lando's alive. Guilt that he won without him. Fear that he's going to lose him anyway.

So Oscar just says, "Yeah. It is."

The TV keeps playing. The detective drama transitions into some courtroom scene, all dramatic music and tense silences that none of them are following.

After a few moments, Lando yawns—wide and unselfconscious, the kind that makes his jaw crack. He blinks slowly, like he's surprised to find himself still awake.

"Right," he mumbles. "Bed. I'm going to bed."

He starts to push himself up.

Max and Oscar exchange a glance—quick, silent communication. Should we help? Do we offer? Will he be offended if we do?

"I got it," Lando says, reading their faces. "I got it."

He plants his hands on the couch cushions and pushes. His arms shake slightly—just barely, but enough that Oscar's half out of his seat before Lando's fully upright.

"I'm fine," Lando says firmly.

He shuffles toward the bedroom—slow, measured steps, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. Max and Oscar watch him go, neither moving, both coiled with the urge to help.

By the time Lando reaches his bedroom doorway he’s a little winded, bracing a hand on the frame, but the look he throws them over his shoulder is triumphant.

Then he continues inside. They hear the soft sound of him sitting on the bed, the rustle of blankets being rearranged.

A moment later, Lando's voice: "See? Fine."

He sounds pleased with himself. Genuinely, triumphantly pleased, like he's just completed a qualifying lap and not walked ten meters to his own bedroom.

Oscar lingers for another second, then steps back. Max appears beside him with a glass of water, sets it on Lando's bedside table without a word. They both stand there in the doorway—two idiots watching someone sleep like it's the most important job in the world.

"We should let him rest," Oscar whispers.

"Yeah," Max agrees.

Neither of them moves.

Lando's breathing evens out. His face goes slack.

Finally, Max reaches for the light switch, dims it to nothing. They step back into the hallway, pulling the door mostly closed—not all the way, just enough to give him privacy while still being able to hear if anything goes wrong.

They return to the living room.

The TV's still playing. Some lawyer is making an impassioned closing argument. Oscar should probably turn it off, but he doesn't have the energy to find the remote.

"You got plans for the holiday?" Oscar asks after a moment.

Max shrugs. "We're going to Brazil. With Kelly's family. But the timing's flexible."

"Flexible how?"

"As in, I can push it if I need to." Max glances at him. "What about you? Australia, right?"

"Yeah. Tuesday now. Was supposed to be Sunday." Oscar pauses. "Also flexible, I guess."

Max nods like that makes perfect sense. 

Conversation drifts. With Max, it always does, somehow meandering into something deeper without either of them noticing.

"Your family must be thrilled, though," Max says eventually. "About the championship. Hell, the entire country must be."

Oscar makes a noncommittal sound.

"What?" Max prods. "You're not happy about it?"

"No, I—" Oscar stops. Tries to organize his thoughts. "I don't know, mate. It still doesn't feel real."

"It's been three weeks."

"I know. But it just—" Oscar gestures vaguely. "It feels like some random alternate universe. Like it just happened to be some freak, unnatural thing. Not something I actually earned."

Max turns to look at him properly. "You won fourteen races. You led the championship from Melbourne onwards. You beat me head-to-head when I had equal machinery. What part of that wasn't earned?"

"The part where I didn't have to fight Lando for it," Oscar says quietly. "You joined halfway through. The circumstances lined up. It doesn't feel earned, it feels... arranged."

Max doesn’t answer right away. He just watches him, lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh and sigh at the same time.

“You ever felt like this with your first?” Oscar asks.

Max huffs. “Mate… half the world said it didn’t belong to me.” He raises a brow. “If you don’t remember what happened.”

Oscar does remember. The controversy. The final lap in Abu Dhabi. The safety car. The protests, the appeals, the endless discourse about whether Max's first title was real or just the result of a technicality.

"Well… You won that championship over an entire season. One decision didn't invalidate everything you did."

"Exactly," Max says. "So why are you doing it to yourself?"

—

The balcony is freezing.

Oscar stepped out here twenty minutes ago in just a t-shirt and joggers, and now he's pretty sure he's lost feeling in his toes. But he can't go back inside yet. Not while he's on the phone with Cisca.

Monaco is still dark—that deep, pre-dawn darkness where the world feels suspended between night and morning. But there's a line of pale gold creeping up over the hills to the east, turning the sky from black to navy to the kind of blue that hurts to look at.

Oscar paces. Three steps to the railing, turn, three steps back. His breath mists in front of him.

"He slept okay," Oscar says into the phone. "I checked on him around 2am and again at five. Temperature was normal both times—37.1 and 37.2."

“That’s good,” Cisca says on the other end, voice warm, steady, somehow awake despite the hour. “If he’s sleeping, leave him. He needs it.”

Oscar nods, pacing slowly across the balcony, his free hand pressed to the railing, the metal is ice-cold against his palm. “He looked okay,” he says. “Breathing steady, didn’t wake up once. Max said he slept through his checks too.”

Cisca laughs softly. “Max is a saint. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t.”

Oscar rubs a hand over his face. “Listen, I’m— uh. I’m sorry if I’m being a bit—”

“Overwhelmed?”

He winces.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Cisca’s voice softens into something maternal in a way Oscar has never quite known from his own relatives. “Relax. If you’re calm, he’ll be calm. You two are like tuning forks, one of you vibrates and the other one picks it up immediately. So breathe. Take the morning. Make some breakfast. Keep things normal.”

Oscar lets that settle. Takes a proper breath—deep, controlled, the way his trainer taught him before races.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. Thank you, Cisca."

"You're doing brilliantly, love. Really."

Oscar doesn't feel like he's doing brilliantly, but he appreciates her saying it anyway.

The sky is lighter now, that golden line spreading wider, chasing the darkness back. The first sliver of sun breaks over the hills.

"How's Flo?" Oscar asks, shifting gears. "Any news?"

Cisca sighs—not frustrated, just tired. "We're still waiting. It's been about 24 hours now. But it's going well so far. The baby's heartbeat is strong. They wanted a home birth, and we've got everyone here—the midwife, the doula, Adam's parents, the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"Oh yes. Two very concerned golden retrievers who keep trying to supervise." There's a smile in her voice. "It's chaos, honestly. But good chaos."

Oscar leans against the railing, picturing it—Cisca in some cozy English home, surrounded by family and dogs and the particular kind of controlled panic that comes with waiting for a baby.

"Everyone's bummed that Lando couldn't be there," Cisca continues, softer now. "But in a way, it's a blessing. He's not in any condition to be here. They've got the water birth set up in the living room, half the family's camped out in the kitchen, the dogs are shedding everywhere—it's absolutely the last place he should be with his immune system."

"He's really gutted about it," Oscar says. "He mentioned it yesterday. He really wanted to be there."

“I know.” Cisca’s voice cracks just a little—barely, but Oscar hears it. “My heart breaks for him. It’s a terrible situation. And this is one of those things they never tell you when you become a mum… you love all your children the same, but life puts you in positions where you can’t be in two places at once, and you feel like you’re failing someone no matter what.”

Oscar stops pacing. Resting both hands on the railing now. 

“Cisca,” he says gently, “you’re not failing anyone. Flo needs you, that’s where you should be. And we’ve got Lando. Me and Max. We’ve got him. He’s gonna be okay.”

Cisca is quiet for a moment. Then: "Thank you, Oscar. Really. I don't know what we'd do without you."

"You don't have to thank me. He's—" Oscar pauses. "He's family."

"He is," Cisca says warmly. "And so are you, love."

Oscar's throat tightens unexpectedly. He blinks against the sunrise, suddenly too bright.

"I should let you go," Cisca says. "Keep me updated, yeah? Even if it's just small things. I want to know he's okay."

"I will. I promise."

"And Oscar?"

"Yeah?"

"Get some proper sleep. You're no good to him if you're exhausted."

Oscar huffs. "I'll try."

"Don't try. Do."

"Yes, ma'am."

Cisca laughs—soft and fond. "Good lad. Give Lando my love when he wakes up."

"I will."

They say their goodbyes. Oscar lowers the phone, stares at the screen for a moment before pocketing it.

The sun is fully up now, painting Monaco in shades of gold and rose. The city is starting to wake—distant sounds of traffic, a few early joggers on the streets below.

Oscar takes one more breath of cold air, then turns and heads back inside.

The apartment is warm. Quiet. Max is in the kitchen, making coffee with the focused concentration of someone who hasn't quite woken up yet. He glances up when Oscar comes in.

"Should we wake him up?" Oscar asks, checking his watch. "It's almost seven. He needs his meds and maybe we should—"

Then they hear it.

Soft footsteps—hurried, uneven. And Lando's voice, urgent and slightly panicked: "Fuck fuck fuck—"

Oscar's moving before he thinks. Max drops the coffee spoon.

They both reach the hallway just as Lando rushes past, beeline straight for the bathroom.

The door slams. There's a beat of silence.

Then the unmistakable sound of Lando making it just in time.

Oscar and Max exchange a glance—concern flickering across both their faces. They hover outside the door, listening. Making sure he's okay. Making sure nothing catastrophic is happening.

More sounds. Then the flush. Running water.

The door opens.

Lando appears, face flushed, hair even more disheveled, looking equal parts embarrassed and relieved.

"You good?" Max asks.

"Yep. Fine." Lando wipes his face with his sleeve. "Good morning to you too."

Oscar tries very hard not to smile. Fails. "That was quite the entrance."

"Shut up."

"Did you at least make it?" Max asks.

Lando glares. "Obviously I made it. I'm not five."

More soft bullying follows as Lando washes his hands, muttering under his breath about idiots and sleep deprivation. He dries his hands, shuffles past them both toward the kitchen. He's moving slowly—careful, deliberate—but steady. No wobbling. No breathlessness.

Oscar files that away as a good sign.

In the kitchen, they fall into an easy rhythm none of them could’ve predicted. 

"Right," Lando says, opening a cabinet. "What are my breakfast options? Because I'm not eating if it's something depressing."

Oscar pulls out the binder—already bookmarked to the nutrition section. "Porridge is recommended. Easy to digest, gentle on the stomach—"

"Depressing."

"Toast with banana?"

"Also depressing."

"Scrambled eggs?"

Lando makes a face. "Why is all the approved food so boring?"

"Because your digestive system is still recovering," Max says, reading over Oscar's shoulder. "And can't handle anything interesting."

Oscar closes the binder. "Porridge or toast. Pick one."

Lando sighs dramatically. "Porridge. But I'm complaining about it."

"Noted."

While Oscar starts making porridge—following the instructions on page 24 with probably more precision than necessary—Max lines up Lando's medications on the counter. Seven different bottles. Pills in various shapes and colors.

"This is so many," Lando mutters, eyeing them.

"This is less than you were on a month ago," Max says. "So actually, this is progress."

"Doesn't feel like progress."

"Would you like a medal for taking your pills?"

"Would you give me one?"

"No."

"Then I don't want one."

Oscar stirs the porridge, listening to them bicker. It's oddly soothing—the back-and-forth, the easy rhythm of it. Like watching a tennis match where both players are equally matched and neither is taking it seriously.

"How do you want this?" Oscar asks, turning. "The porridge. The binder says you can add honey or fruit—"

"Honey," Lando says immediately. "And maybe some berries if we have them?"

"We have strawberries," Max says, already pulling them from the fridge. "But they're a bit sad."

"I'll take sad strawberries over no strawberries."

Oscar plates the porridge—warm, not too thick, drizzled with honey and topped with the slightly wilted strawberries. He sets it in front of Lando, who looks at it like it's both a gift and an insult.

Lando picks up the spoon. Takes a bite. Makes a noncommittal sound.

"Verdict?" Max asks.

"It's... fine."

"High praise."

"It's porridge. It's never going to be exciting." Lando takes another bite. "But it's edible. So. Thanks, Osc."

Oscar nods, something settling in his chest. It's such a small thing—making breakfast—but it feels significant somehow. Like he's doing something right.

Max slides the first set of pills across the counter. "Immunosuppressants. With food."

Lando eyes them. "Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then your body will reject the transplant and you'll die. So. Your choice."

"You're very dramatic this morning."

"I'm very serious this morning."

Lando sighs, takes the pills, swallows them with water. Makes a face.

"They taste like absolute shit, you know."

"Noted."

"Every time. Like swallowing metal."

"Also noted."

"I hate them."

"But you're taking them," Oscar points out. "So that's good."

Lando grumbles but keeps eating. Max leans against the counter with his terrible coffee. Oscar stands by the stove, watching.

And somehow—despite everything, despite the binder and the medications and the constant underlying fear—it feels easy. Natural. Like they've been doing this for years instead of twelve hours.

At some point, Lando picks up his phone and snaps a quick photo for his Instagram story: the table, the bowl of porridge, the neat little lineup of medications, and Max and Oscar sitting side by side looking absurdly soft for two world champions. One bleary-eyed, one smiling slightly, both watching him like he’s something fragile and irreplaceable.

“Jesus,” Max groans when he notices. “Don’t post that.”

“Too late,” Lando says, hitting upload. “It’s cute.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but his heart does something inconvenient and warm.

—

By midday, they've settled into an uneasy routine.

Lando's back on the couch, looking tired but stable. His morning meds are down. He managed half the porridge and most of a banana. Oscar logged it all in the chart on page 10.

Max is sprawled in the armchair, scrolling through his phone with the focused intensity of someone actively avoiding responsibility.

And Oscar is standing in front of the TV, remote in hand, trying to figure out F1TV.

"This interface is terrible," he mutters.

"You're just bad at technology," Max says without looking up.

"I'm not bad at technology—"

"Right, what are we watching?" Lando interrupts, perking up slightly. "Please tell me it's something good."

Oscar navigates to the race archive. "I don't know. What do you want to watch?"

"Something from the early 2000s," Lando says immediately. "Like, 2004. 2005. When the cars actually sounded good."

"The cars sound fine now," Oscar says.

"They sound like vacuum cleaners."

"They sound like hybrid power units—"

"Which are vacuum cleaners."

Max finally looks up. "Can we watch something dramatic? Like, I don't care about the year. Just something with chaos."

"Chaos isn't a selection criteria," Oscar says.

"It should be."

Oscar scrolls through the archive. "Okay. Early 2000s. What race?"

"Suzuka 2005," Lando says. "Kimi's title fight. Absolutely peak driving."

"Kimi didn't win the title that year," Max points out.

"I know. But he should have. That's the point."

Oscar keeps scrolling. "What about something more recent? The racing's better now. The drivers are more skilled—"

Lando sits up slightly, offended. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying. Modern drivers have better training, better data, better—"

"Michael Schumacher would destroy half the current grid."

"In a modern car? Maybe. Maybe not."

"Definitely."

Max groans. "Can we not do this?"

"Do what?" Oscar asks.

"The 'old cars vs new cars' debate. It's boring."

"It's not boring," Lando says. "It's important. The V10 era was peak F1."

"Peak F1 is now," Oscar counters. "The cars are faster, safer, more technologically advanced—"

"But they sound like shit."

"Sound doesn't matter if the racing's better."

"Sound absolutely matters! It's part of the experience—"

"The experience for who?" Oscar argues. "The fans or the drivers?"

"Both!"

Max drops his phone onto the armchair, resigned to this conversation happening. "Alright. Explain to me how sound makes the racing better."

Lando gestures emphatically, blanket slipping off one shoulder. "It's about the visceral experience. You hear a V10 scream past at 19,000 RPM and it does something to you. It's alive. The current engines sound neutered."

"But they're more efficient," Oscar says. "More relevant to road cars. More sustainable—"

"I don't care about road car relevance when I'm watching F1," Lando shoots back. "I care about entertainment."

"Entertainment and performance aren't the same thing," Oscar says.

"They should be!"

Max leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Okay, so what's more important—entertainment or peak performance?"

There's a beat.

"Performance," Oscar and Lando say simultaneously.

Then Lando adds: "But entertainment is still important."

"Obviously," Oscar agrees. "But if you have to choose—"

"Peak performance," Lando concedes. "Always. That's what separates sport from circus."

Max nods slowly. "So you'd rather watch the best drivers in the best cars, even if it's boring?"

"Yes," Oscar says immediately.

"No," Lando says at the same time.

They look at each other.

"Okay, hear me out," Lando says. "In an ideal world, F1 would be like the Olympics. Pure athletic competition. Best athletes, level playing field, no politics. Just performance."

"That's naive," Max says flatly.

"Why?"

"Because F1 is a constructor's championship," Max says. "It's not about the drivers alone. It's about the car, the team, the budget, the development. I wouldn’t have struggled so much in Red Bull this year if they just got their shit together. You can be the best driver in the world and still finish P15 if your car's shit."

"Exactly," Lando says. "Which is why the entertainment part matters. Because we can't have pure performance. The sport is too complicated, too political. So at the very least, it should be entertaining."

Oscar frowns. "But you just said performance is more important."

"It is. But entertainment is what keeps people watching." Lando shifts. "Look. The 2023 season. Max won like, what, 17 races?"

"Nineteen," Max corrects him.

"Right. And was that entertaining?"

Max pauses. "Yes."

"For you," Lando says. "But for everyone else? For the fans? It was a snoozefest. People stopped watching because there was no competition."

"That's not my fault," Max says defensively.

"I didn't say it was your fault," Lando counters. "I'm saying it's a structural problem. Your performance became irrelevant because no one could challenge you. You were lapping half the field. You won by 20 seconds. That's not racing. That's just... existing at the front."

Max's jaw tightens slightly. "I was still driving at peak performance."

"I know you were. But the show matters too." Lando looks at Oscar. "Back me up here."

Oscar considers. "I mean... he's not wrong. The 2023 season was objectively less entertaining than 2024. People want to see battles. Close finishes. Uncertainty."

"Even if the quality of driving is worse?" Max challenges.

"The quality wasn't worse," Oscar says. "It was just—more competitive. More teams in the fight. More drivers with a realistic chance of winning."

"So you're saying I made the sport boring by being too good," Max says flatly.

"No—" Lando starts.

"That's what you're saying."

"That's not what we're saying," Oscar interjects. "We're saying dominance—any dominance—is boring to watch if there's no challenge. It happened with Ferrari in the early 2000s, with Mercedes in the 2010s, with Red Bull in 2023. It's not personal."

“It wasn’t entertaining. Because when the performance gap is that big, the performance itself becomes… irrelevant. It’s just a foregone conclusion. There’s no drama in a one-man show.”

That last part hung in the air, sharp and uncomfortable. They all feel the unspoken extension: Like the majority of last season.

The season that still feels like a fever dream, where Oscar spent over half the season racing against ghosts. Teams couldn't figure out how the McLaren got so fast and Oscar didn't have anyone challenging him. The first twelve rounds with Pato and Frederik, it was just a rotating door of reserve drivers who tried their best but couldn't keep up. Oscar won nearly every race from Australia onwards. All the early races where he'd dominated, unchallenged, untested, racking up points while everyone asked but could he do it against real competition?

Max only arrived after summer break and suddenly everything shifted into another gear. Four months of the most intense wheel-to-wheel racing he's ever experienced. Monza decided by nine thousandths of a second. Singapore where Max made a mistake and Oscar capitalized. The disasters in Vegas. 

But it didn’t really matter much because Oscar already built a decent buffer around himself. 

Lando looks down, picking at a thread on the blanket. He is the missing variable in Oscar’s equation, the challenger who never showed up.

Max, sensing the shift in atmosphere, clears his throat. “Right. So we need a race with high performance and high drama. Where the best drivers are pushed to their absolute limit, and it’s still anyone’s game.”

He starts scrolling through the archive again, a determined set to his jaw.

“2019 Germany,” Lando suggests softly, not looking up.

Oscar glances at him, then at Max. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay. That’s a good one.”

Max finds it and hits play. As the opening montage begins, he settles back, and Oscar does the same. 

The debate takes more out of Lando than any of them realize.

Before the opening credits even finish, his breathing evens out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. His head lolls to the side, propped awkwardly against a cushion, the remote still loosely held in his slack hand.

Oscar and Max exchange a look across the room—a silent, mutual agreement. The argument is over. The need for rest has won.

For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds are the commentary and the roar of cars on a damp track. They watch the chaos unfold in a comfortable lull, neither wanting to break the spell. Max, a faint, proud smirk on his face, watches his own past brilliance as he carves through the field on the treacherous surface. Oscar watches the strategy unfold, his analyst's brain tracking the shift from wet to intermediate tyres.

The cars are just beginning to peel into the pits for slicks when Oscar’s phone buzzes on the coffee table. He glances at the screen and stills.

Zak Brown.

His eyes flick to Max, who is engrossed in his own on-screen daring, then to the sleeping Lando. Weird. Zak doesn't usually call for a casual chat.

"Gotta take this," he murmurs, scooping up the phone.

Max gives a noncommittal grunt, not looking away from his own pass on Pierre Gasly.

Oscar slips out of the living room and into the kitchen, putting the length of the apartment between him and the others before swiping to answer.

"Zak? What's up?"

"Oscar! Good to hear your voice, dude." Zak's tone is breezy, but there is a probing edge underneath. "Just saw Lando's Insta story. Looks like a proper sleepover over there. Everything alright?"

Oscar leans against the counter, looking back toward the living room doorway. He can just see the flicker of the TV lights. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just... keeping him company for a few days. Cisca's back in the UK with Flo, and Max Fewtrell sprains his ankle pretty bad. So it's me and... Verstappen on babysitting duty."

There is a beat of silence on the other end, longer than feels comfortable.

"Right," Zak says, the casual facade dropping. "Listen, Oscar. I'm going to level with you. This is... awkward, but I need to ask you something. Off the record."

Oscar's grip on the phone tightens. "Okay..."

"It's about Max. Our Max." Zak lowers his voice, as if someone might be listening in his own office. "He's still not signing the contract for next year. We've been going back and forth for months. And I know for a fact he's been quietly shopping himself around. Aston Martin and Mercedes."

Oscar feels a jolt of surprise. "What? No. He's... he's happy. He's finally winning with us. He tells me—" Oscar cuts himself off, realizing Max has never actually said the words. He just assumes.

"That's what I've been saying!" Zak's frustration bleeds through. "It makes no sense. Every public statement says he's sticking with us. It's the last thing we need. It would look... stupid for us to lose him now. And finding a replacement of that caliber this late? It's a nightmare."

The pieces click into place, and Oscar feels a cold dread. "So... what are you asking me?"

A long sigh. "I don't know how to do this, but... can you just... feel him out? Figure out what's going on in his head. We want him. The car is built for both of you. Lando wants him in the team. I just need to know why he's hesitating."

The mention of Lando is a deliberate, well-aimed punch. Oscar’s next question is instinctive, urgent. "Does Lando know about this?"

"No," Zak says quickly, firmly. "I haven't discussed any of this with him since before Qatar. His only job is to get better. And back then... back then, Max was positive. Something's changed."

In the living room, a roar from the TV signals a spin or a crash. Max lets out a low chuckle. Oscar watches his teammate—his brilliant, complicated, possibly leaving teammate—oblivious to the conversation happening thirty feet away.

"Okay," Oscar says quietly, his mind racing. "I... I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Oscar. I owe you one. Just... be subtle."

The line goes dead. Oscar stands in the quiet kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly loud in his ears. He looks from his silent phone to the doorway, where the ghost of Max's greatest drive still plays out, and to the silhouette of their sleeping friend on the couch.

He slips back into the living room just as the final laps are unfolding. He takes his seat quietly, his eyes darting between the screen, Max's focused profile, and Lando's sleeping form, letting the new information sink in.

From a purely selfish point of view, he should be happy. Having Max as a teammate is a special kind of curse nobody truly wants. He remembers how quickly Max picked up the car, how he was winning almost from the moment he slid into the cockpit. It never gave Oscar a chance to see him struggle. If he wants to keep winning next year, the easiest path is the one without Max Verstappen in the other garage.

But the thought feels hollow, almost shameful.

They are good teammates. For the first time, Oscar feels the right kind of pressure—the sharp, clarifying kind that forces you to be better. It’s the pressure you crave in this sport, the one that's gone missing when Lando stopped being there. You always want to measure yourself against the best. And if his first championship has an invisible asterisk—the one that whispers Lando wasn't there and Max joined late—then what he wants more than anything is a full season with Max. He wants to prove, to everyone and to himself, that the first title wasn't a one-off. He wants to earn it again, with no caveats.

The race eventually ends, the familiar F1 theme music swelling. Max clicks the remote, and the screen goes black, plunging the room into a sudden, heavy silence. He turns his head, his eyes finding Oscar's in the dim light.

"Everything okay?" he asks, his voice low so as not to disturb Lando.

Oscar nods, but his expression says something else entirely. It’s too still, the calm before a strategy meeting you know is going to be tense.

“Who was it?” Max asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Oscar thinks of lying. A quick no one or my manager. But he sees the direct, unblinking look in Max’s eyes and sees no point in it. They’ve shared too much these last few days to start with easy lies now.

“Zak,” he says. The name hangs in the quiet room.

Max’s eyebrows lift, just a fraction. A silent oh?. But he says nothing. He just waits, his expression unreadable, the same one he wears on the grid when he’s listening to final instructions but has already made up his mind.

Oscar’s mind races. How on earth is he supposed to figure this out? How do you ask someone why they’re planning to leave a team they seem perfectly happy in? How does Max sit here, in their friend’s apartment, acting like part of the family, while secretly shopping himself around to Aston and Mercedes? The dissonance is jarring.

His gaze shifts to Lando, asleep on the cushions beside him. Pale, exhausted, utterly trusting in their presence. The fragile peace of the room feels sacred.

His only job is to get better.

Zak’s words ring in his ears. This secret isn’t just about contracts; it’s a potential grenade, and Lando is sleeping right next to the pin.

Oscar looks back at Max, at the expectant but guarded set of his shoulders. He lets out a slow, quiet breath, the decision settling in his gut.

Not now. This is not the time, and this is not the place.

“Just checking in,” Oscar says finally, his own voice low and even. “Wanted an update on things here.”

—

Lando wakes a few hours later, blinking slowly at the ceiling before his gaze drifts to the TV. The credits are rolling on something he doesn't recognize.

"Aw, did I fall asleep again?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Oscar glances over, and his expression softens immediately. "Yeah, you did. It's okay though, you didn't miss much." He pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You were there anyway. You know how it ended."

Lando scoffs, pushing himself up slightly against the cushions. "I was barely there. That was back when being a McLaren driver meant your contribution to the race was causing a safety car, not benefiting from one."

Max appears from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand. He doesn't say anything, just sets it on the coffee table in front of Lando with a pointed look.

Lando picks it up immediately, drinking half of it in one go. "Fuck, thank you," he says, breathless. "That nap completely dehydrated me."

"You need to drink more," Max says, dropping back into the armchair.

"I know, I know." Lando sets the glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "So what'd I miss? Germany 2019?"

"Yeah," Oscar confirms. "Watching Max carve through the field like a maniac."

Max smirks. "I prefer 'calculated risk-taker.'"

Lando huffs a quiet laugh, then goes quiet for a moment, staring at the blank screen. "That race was insane. I remember thinking at the time—like, this felt different. Not just chaotic. But like something had shifted."

"It was the first crack," Max says, voice taking on a more serious tone. "In hindsight. Mercedes' dominance. That was the beginning of the end."

Oscar frowns. "You don't know that. One race doesn't—"

"It wasn't just one race," Max interrupts. "That was the first visible crack. But the rot was already there. You could see it in how they reacted. The mistakes, the strategy calls, the way they started to panic under pressure."

"They won the championship that year," Oscar points out. "Lewis still dominated 2020."

"2020 was a COVID year," Max says dismissively. "Shortened calendar, no development battle, everyone locked into their cars. Of course they won. But they didn't act like a team that was secure. They acted like everything was a threat. Development, operations, strategy—all of it started showing cracks. By 2022, it all fell apart. But it didn't happen suddenly. It was gradual. And if you were paying attention, you could see the pattern."

"There's no pattern," Oscar says, and there's an edge to his voice now. "You can't predict which team will rise or fall based on one race or one mistake. Otherwise you would've left Red Bull much earlier."

The words land harder than Oscar intended.

Max's jaw tightens. His eyes narrow slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is calm but cold. "I knew what it looked like. I've been in this game for ten years, Oscar. I know when a team is trending down. When the culture shifts. When the mistakes start piling up in ways that can't be fixed mid-season."

"Then why didn't you leave sooner?" Oscar presses, leaning forward now. "If you're so good at reading the signs?"

"Because I was loyal," Max says sharply. "Because I believed they could turn it around. Because leaving a team mid-dominance looks like you're running. And maybe—" He stops himself, exhales harshly. "Maybe I stayed too long. But at least I know what to look for now."

Oscar's hands curl into fists on his knees. "You're making it sound like there's some secret formula. Like you can just look at a team and know if they're about to collapse. But you can't. Nobody can."

"I can," Max says, voice low but firm. "Because I've lived through it. I've been inside teams at their peak and watched them implode. I know the signs."

"What signs?" Oscar challenges. "What pattern are you seeing that no one else is?"

Max leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Oscar. "The way leadership reacts to pressure. The way they handle success. Whether they're building for the long term or just riding momentum. Whether they're hungry or complacent."

"That's not a pattern, that's just—hindsight bias. You're retrofitting narratives to make yourself sound smart."

Max's voice drops, dangerous and quiet. "I've been doing this since I was seventeen, Oscar. I've won four world championships. I've been inside Red Bull at its peak and watched it crumble. So yeah, maybe I know a bit more about reading a team than someone who's been here for three years."

Oscar's face flushes. "That's—"

"What were you even doing in 2019?" Max cuts in. "Where were you when I was fighting for race wins in a midfield car? When I was learning what it meant to carry a team on your back?"

"I was in Formula Renault," Oscar says tightly. 

"Exactly." Max sits back, arms crossed. "So maybe don't lecture me about patterns you've never seen."

Oscar opens his mouth to respond—something sharp, something cutting—but he stops himself. Because he realizes, suddenly, that they're not talking about Mercedes anymore.

They're talking about McLaren.

They're talking about Max weighing his options.

Oscar's stomach twists. He wants to say it—wants to ask outright, are you planning to leave?—but the words stick in his throat.

Instead, he says, "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying you can't always predict—"

"I'm not predicting," Max interrupts. "I'm observing. There's a difference."

The air between them is sharp now, charged with something neither of them wants to name.

And that's when Oscar realizes: Lando hasn't said a word.

He turns, and his breath catches.

Lando's face has gone pale. Not just tired-pale. Sick-pale. His hand is pressed to his stomach, and his breathing is shallow, controlled in a way that suggests he's trying very hard not to show that something is wrong.

"Lando?" Oscar says immediately, the argument forgotten.

Lando doesn't answer right away. His eyes are closed, jaw clenched.

Max notices too. He straightens in his chair. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Lando says through gritted teeth. "Just—cramp. It's fine."

Oscar's already moving, kneeling in front of the couch. "Where?"

"Stomach. And my back." Lando shifts, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt. "It happens sometimes. It'll pass."

The words trigger something cold and procedural in Oscar's brain. He pushes the argument, the contract, everything else aside. This is page seven of the binder. This is the highlighted section.

"Okay," Oscar says, his voice dropping into a calm, measured tone that feels alien even to him. He doesn't touch Lando yet. "Describe it. Is it a sharp cramp or a dull ache? Is it constant or coming in waves?"

Lando squeezes his eyes shut. "Waves. Dull, then... sharp. Like a band tightening."

Severe abdominal pain. May indicate GVHD of the gut.

"Have you been to the bathroom today?" Oscar asks, keeping his voice even. "Any blood?"

"No. God, Oscar, no." Lando's voice is thin with pain and frustration.

Oscar's mind races. Fever? Did we check his temperature at noon? A wave of pure, icy failure washes over him. He was so busy arguing about team dynamics he forgot the 2pm check. He let himself get distracted. 

Oscar turns back to Lando, who is now breathing in short, controlled puffs. "Lando. Talk to me. Has this happened before? How often?"

Lando gives a jerky, half-shrug. "Not... not as often as it used to be. In the hospital, all the time. Now... maybe once a week? Less." He swallows, his throat working. "The meds... side effects. Or if I get dehydrated. Or... too tired. Or even if I sleep too much. My body's just... stupid now."

Oscar is already moving, snatching the red binder from the counter. He flips to the medication side-effects index with trembling hands. Tacrolimus: common side effects include headache, tremor, nausea... may cause abdominal discomfort. It’s there. It’s listed as ‘expected’ and ‘manageable’. The clinical language feels like a mockery. He’s allowed to panic, the binder says this can be normal, but the gap between ‘expected abdominal discomfort’ and the reality of Lando’s pale, sweating face is a chasm.

"We can manage this," Oscar says, more to himself than anyone. He looks at Max. "A heat pack. The microwaveable one. Cisca labelled it."

Max nods, already turning toward the kitchen, grateful for a direct order.

"Paracetamol," Oscar continues, reading from the binder's 'approved comfort meds' list. "It's on the schedule for 6pm anyway. We'll move it up." He meets Lando's glassy eyes. "Okay? Heat and paracetamol. We'll see if that breaks the cycle."

Lando just nods, a tight, grateful movement.

Oscar takes a breath. Leans forward to press the heat pack gently against Lando's lower back.

Lando exhales shakily. "That's—yeah. That's good."

"Okay," Oscar says quietly. "Okay."

They settle into position—Oscar on the floor beside the couch, keeping the heat pack in place. Max sitting on the coffee table, close enough to hand Lando water when he needs it but far enough not to crowd him.

The argument from before has evaporated completely. The tension between Oscar and Max doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters except the person on the couch between them, breathing carefully through the pain.

The minutes tick by.

Five minutes. Ten.

Lando's face is still pinched, but his breathing starts to even out slightly. The rigid tension in his shoulders eases by degrees.

"Better?" Oscar asks quietly.

"A bit," Lando admits. "Still there, but—less sharp."

"That's good," Max says. "That's progress."

"Paracetamol's probably kicking in," Oscar says, more to himself than anyone else.

Fifteen minutes.

Lando shifts slightly, testing. Winces, but less dramatically than before. "Yeah. It's—it's going."

Oscar keeps the heat pack in place, watching Lando's face for any sign that things are getting worse again. But the color is slowly coming back to his cheeks. His jaw isn't as clenched.

Twenty minutes.

"Okay," Lando says, voice stronger now. "I think—yeah. It's mostly gone."

Oscar doesn't move the heat pack. "Mostly?"

"Like ninety percent." Lando opens his eyes, looks at Oscar. "I'm okay. Really."

Oscar wants to believe him. Wants to accept that this was just a normal post-transplant complication, exactly like the binder said. But that dread is still sitting in his chest, heavy and cold.

"Has it ever lasted longer than this?" Oscar asks. "Like—hours?"

Lando hesitates. "Once or twice. But that was when things were worse. Right after the transplant. It's better now."

"Define better," Max says quietly.

Lando huffs. "Better as in not actively dying."

"That's a low bar," Oscar mutters.

"It's the bar I've got."

They sit in silence for another few minutes. Oscar keeps the heat pack in place until Lando tells him it's too warm, and only then does he pull it away.

Lando sits up slowly, testing his body. He's pale, exhausted, but moving without the sharp gasps of pain from before.

"See?" Lando says. "Told you it would pass."

—

The late afternoon becomes a carefully choreographed shuffle of tasks neither of them discusses but both understand needs doing.

Max takes point on medications—lining up the evening doses with precision, checking and double-checking the schedule against the binder. He moves through the kitchen with purpose, pulling out ingredients for something bland and easy to digest. Pasta, maybe. Something Lando can actually finish.

Oscar draws a bath.

It feels oddly intimate, standing in Lando's bathroom testing water temperature with his wrist like he's preparing a bath for a child. Too hot. He adjusts the tap. Tests again. Better.

His phone is balanced on the sink, messages to Cisca and Max Fewtrell flying back and forth.

Oscar: Had some cramping this afternoon. Lasted about 30 min. Temp was 37.9 after. Down to 37.4 now.

Cisca: That's normal love. Keep monitoring. If it goes above 38 call the clinic.

Fewtrell: Cramping is shit but expected. He tell you about the heat pack trick?

Oscar: Yeah we used one. Helped.

Fewtrell: Good. Don't let him skip dinner even if he says he's not hungry.

Oscar tests the water one more time. Adds a bit more cold. Perfect.

He finds Lando on the couch, looking exhausted but stable. "Hey. Bath's ready."

Lando looks up, surprised. "You drew me a bath?"

"Yeah." Oscar shifts his weight, suddenly self-conscious. "You'll feel better afterwards. I promise."

Lando blinks at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nods. "Okay. Yeah. Thanks."

Oscar hovers while Lando stands—ready to catch him if he wobbles—but Lando makes it to the bathroom on his own, moving slowly but steadily.

"I've got it from here," Lando says, one hand on the doorframe. "You don't need to—"

"I'll be right outside," Oscar says. "Just—call if you need anything."

"Oscar—"

"Please."

Lando sighs but doesn't argue. The door closes softly.

Oscar stands in the hallway for a solid thirty seconds after the bathroom door closes, ear tilted, listening for the sound of running water, a stumble, anything. He’s cataloging risks: slick tiles, dizziness, weakness.

Max appears silently beside him and physically steers him by the elbow back toward the living room.

“He’s fine,” Max says, his voice a low, insistent rumble. “Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re absolutely hovering. You’re like a satellite. Give him two minutes of privacy.”

Oscar lets himself be led, but the compliance is temporary. He shakes off Max’s grip and turns on him as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“We can’t do that again,” Oscar says quietly.

Max tilts his head. “Do what?”

“That,” Oscar says, gesturing vaguely toward the couch, toward the air between them. “Whatever that was before he got the cramps. We can’t wind him up like that.”

Max’s brows lift, irritation flickering but controlled. “We were talking about racing. He was the one who picked the race.”

“It wasn’t the race,” Oscar mutters. “It was… everything around it.”

Max sighs through his nose, the sound sharp but still measured. “You think a conversation about 2019 Mercedes is what pushed him over the edge? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It wasn’t about Mercedes,” Oscar says, his tone low, almost conversational—but with something tight threaded underneath. “It was the way you were talking about them. Like you’d already made your diagnosis. Like you were speaking from… inside knowledge.”

Max goes very still.

Oscar presses, but keeps his voice soft enough not to carry down the hall. “Zak told me you’re talking to other teams.”

A flicker—annoyance, then caution—crosses Max’s face. “That’s between me and Zak.”

“It’s between all of us,” Oscar counters, still quiet. “This team is planning around you. Lando was excited about having you for next year.”

“It’s not that simple,” Max says, his tone flat but not sharp. He rubs a knuckle under his jaw. “My contract ends this year. I have the right to explore my options. You of all people should understand that.”

Oscar clenches his jaw. “You finally have a car you can win in. A team that’s built you into their long-term plan.”

Max gives a small, humourless breath of a laugh. “Do we, though?”

Oscar’s brow tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m evaluating,” Max says, voice low but steady. “I’ve only agreed for a contract until the end of this year, that’s what Lando sold me. And I don’t know yet if McLaren’s 2026 package is where I should stake everything. The regs might reset the whole field. And the leadership…”

Oscar blinks. “…What?”

Max exhales, looking down at the floor as if choosing each word with surgical care. “Andrea is brilliant. I mean that. But he runs McLaren like an academic institution. Consensus. Processes. Everything decided by committee. And Zak—” He hesitates, choosing another diplomatic phrasing. “Zak sells confidence better than he delivers it.”

Oscar’s chest tightens—because he’s heard these whispers before. “You’re still thinking of leaving.”

Max’s jaw shifts. “I’m thinking,” he says carefully, “that I don’t know this team well enough yet to bet the prime of my career on it.”

Oscar’s breath leaves him in a quiet, stung exhale. “But I need you to stay,” he says before he can stop himself—quiet, small, vulnerable.

But before Max can respond, the bathroom door clicks open softly.

Lando appears—fresh clothes, damp hair, a faint pink glow from warm water. He looks steadier. More himself. He glances between them, sensing the quiet tension in the air.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice thin but teasing.

Max straightens. Oscar schools his expression.

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “All good.”

“Pasta?” Max asks, already turning toward the kitchen.

Lando’s gaze lingers on both of them, the brief playfulness from the hallway gone, replaced by a quiet, observant fatigue. He just nods. “Pasta sounds good.”

They move around each other with a rehearsed, silent script. Lando eases himself into a chair at the dining table, a spectator. Max boils water, salts it aggressively, and drains a box of simple pasta, tossing it with butter and a handful of parmesan from the fridge. It’s bland, safe, easy on a sensitive stomach. Oscar sets the table, placing a glass of water by Lando’s right hand without being asked.

The meal is quiet, punctuated only by the soft clink of forks. Max watches Lando eat with the intensity of a mechanic monitoring telemetry, subtly nudging the plate closer when he slows down. After, it’s the same medical ballet: Max lines up the evening pills on the counter, checks them twice against the binder, and hands them over one by one with a fresh glass of water. Oscar logs each one in the chart with a grim sense of duty.

By the time the rituals are complete, it’s fully dark outside, the Monaco skyline glittering beyond the windows, indifferent to the small, careful world inside the apartment.

They migrate back to the living room. Oscar finishes wiping down the kitchen and joins them, sinking into his now-customary spot at one end of the couch. Lando is at the other, a blanket over his lap. Max has already claimed the armchair, a silent territory.

Lando is holding the remote, staring at the glowing home screen as if it’s written in a foreign language.

“You know,” Oscar offers gently, “we don’t have to watch race replays.”

Lando sighs, a soft, frustrated sound. “What else is there? I’m not watching another stupid crime show.”

“There’s always Drive to Survive,” Max says, a deliberate, dry provocation.

The reaction is immediate and unified.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Over my dead body.”

A flicker of something—almost a smile—passes between them. It’s the easiest agreement they’ve had all day.

They bicker listlessly after that, a half-hearted debate about nature documentaries (“Too many teeth,” Lando vetoes) and baking shows (“Too much waiting,” Max dismisses), but the energy is spent. They’re just going through the motions, avoiding the silence as much as they’re avoiding each other’s eyes.

Finally, Lando scrolls past a familiar thumbnail: two helmeted figures from a bygone era, glaring at each other in black and white.

“What about this?” he asks, his voice tentative.

Prost vs. Senna: The Untold Story.

Oscar and Max look at each other, a silent negotiation passing in a glance. It’s racing, but it’s history. It’s conflict, but it’s legacy. It’s safe, because it’s about two other people, a long time ago.

“Yeah,” Oscar says.

“Fine,” Max grunts.

Lando hits play. The opening notes of a dramatic score fill the room—strings and brass, heavy with gravitas. The screen shows grainy footage: Suzuka, October 1989, the McLaren-Honda MP4/5 in its iconic red and white livery.

Max leans forward slightly. "This is where it all went to shit, right?"

"This is where it got interesting," Lando corrects.

The race unfolds in fast-forward at first—Senna on pole, Prost alongside. The start is clean, but the tension is already there, two teammates with everything to lose.

Oscar watches quietly. He's seen this race before. Multiple times. Studied it like a textbook.

"Prost was so calculated," Lando says as the footage shows the Frenchman defending position. "Never took unnecessary risks. Always thinking three moves ahead."

"Senna was the opposite," Max says. "Pure instinct. If he saw a gap—"

"He went for it," Oscar finishes. "Even if the gap wasn't really there."

Lando glances at him. "You sound like you don't approve."

"I didn't say that."

"You kind of did."

Oscar shifts on the couch. "I respect Prost. A lot, actually. He helped me early in my career—put in a good word with some people, gave me advice when I needed it. I owe him a lot."

"But?" Max prompts.

"But I hate the comparison," Oscar says flatly. "Everyone says I drive like him. That I'm the calculated one. The safe one. The Prost to someone else's Senna."

"I mean..." Lando trails off, clearly trying not to smile.

"You do though," Max says, not even bothering to hide his grin.

"See, that's the problem," Oscar says, heat creeping into his voice. "Because the second you say I'm Prost, that immediately makes my rivals the Senna. Either you—" He looks at Lando. "—or you." He looks at Max. "And I'm supposed to be fine with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" Lando asks, genuinely curious.

"Because why can't I be the Senna?" Oscar's leaning forward now, animated. "Why does being smart and calculating automatically make me the boring one? Senna was ruthless. He saw gaps and went for them. He pushed boundaries. He—"

"He also crashed into people on purpose," Max points out.

"That's not the point." Oscar runs a hand through his hair. "The point is—it's reductive. It assumes there are only two types of drivers. The calculated thinker and the instinctive risk-taker. And modern F1 isn't like that."

Max nods slowly. "Yeah. You're right. It's not black and white anymore."

"Exactly," Oscar says. "It's too complex now. Even backmarkers have to be complete drivers. You can't just be fast or just be smart. You have to be both. Calculating but also gutsy. Patient but also aggressive. Everyone has to have all the skillsets."

"True," Max agrees. "But—"

"But people still want the narrative," Lando interrupts softly. He's watching the screen, where Senna and Prost are wheel-to-wheel into the chicane. "The rivalry. The clash of styles. It's cleaner that way. Easier to understand."

On screen, the collision happens. Senna dives down the inside. Prost turns in. They touch. Both cars slide into the gravel trap, beached.

The room goes quiet.

"What's crazy," Lando says eventually, "is how much they pushed each other. Like—this level of intensity. This level of hatred, almost. And what's even crazier is that it doesn't happen more often."

Max frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" Lando gestures at the screen. "You'd think this kind of rivalry would be everywhere. Two top drivers in the same team, fighting for the same championship. But it's actually pretty rare."

"Because not every team can have the best drivers," Max says. "The truly elite ones are rare, Lando. You can't just—"

"No, I know that," Lando interrupts. "But sometimes it's not just about having two great drivers in the same team. Sometimes it's about the drivers themselves. The ones who are drawn to each other. Who want to fight each other specifically."

Oscar looks at him. "What do you mean?"

Lando's quiet for a moment, eyes still on the screen. "Did you know it was Prost who suggested Senna to Ron Dennis?"

Max sits up straighter. "What?"

"Yeah." Lando nods. "Prost was already at McLaren. Dominant. Could've kept a number two driver, someone who wouldn't threaten him. But he specifically pushed for Senna. Wanted the best teammate possible."

Oscar's heard this before—read it in some biography years ago—but hearing Lando say it now hits differently.

Max is staring at Lando like he's just revealed a secret. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he wanted to prove himself," Lando says simply. "He wanted to beat the best. Not just win—anyone can win with a good car. He wanted to beat Senna. Specifically Senna. To prove he was better."

"And then it destroyed their relationship," Oscar says quietly.

"Yeah." Lando's voice is soft. "It did. But—I don't know. There's something... pure about that, isn't there? Wanting to race the person who makes you better. Even if it costs you."

Max looks at him like he's speaking an alien language. "That's bullshit."

Lando blinks. "What?"

"Romanticization bullshit," Max says flatly. "You either win or you lose. That's it. There's no 'pure' version where you get credit for racing the right person. A win is a win. A loss is a loss."

Oscar smiles faintly, shaking his head. "You'll never get it."

"Get what?" Max's voice has an edge now.

"The point," Oscar says simply.

Lando shifts on the couch, turning toward Max. "You know how Nico gets extra bragging rights? Even with just one title? Because he beat Lewis in equal machinery. That means something."

"It means he won once," Max says. "Lewis has seven titles. Nico has one. The math is pretty clear."

"But the context—"

"Context doesn't matter when you're counting championships," Max interrupts. "No one remembers who you beat. They remember if you won."

"That's not true," Lando argues. "People still talk about Nico beating Lewis. They still talk about how hard he had to push, how much it cost him—"

Oscar's watching Max now—really watching him. The way his jaw is clenched. The way his hands are gripping his knees. The way he's arguing with an intensity that doesn't match the conversation.

Something clicks.

"You know what?" Oscar says, voice deceptively calm. "Don't waste your energy, Lando. He's not going to get it."

Max's head snaps toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're refusing to understand," Oscar says with a shrug. "But it makes sense. You were raised in a one-driver system at Red Bull. It's totally ingrained in your brain. You literally can't comprehend what it means to have a real teammate."

Max's eyes flash. "That's—"

"It's true though, isn't it?" Oscar leans back, feigning casualness even as his heart races. "At Red Bull, you were always the priority. Checo, Pierre, whoever—they were all number two. You never had to actually fight for position within your own team."

"That's not—" Max stops. Takes a breath. "That's not fair."

"But it's accurate," Oscar says.

Lando shifts on the couch, looking between them with growing concern. "Okay, but—Max has been at McLaren for half a season now. He gets it. He can tell the difference, being in a two-driver system instead of one driver with support."

"Can he?" Oscar asks, still looking at Max.

"Yes," Lando says, confused now. "Obviously. He's been racing you wheel-to-wheel since—"

"It seems like Max doesn't want it."

The words are out before Oscar can stop them. Before his brain catches up to his mouth.

The room goes silent.

Lando blinks. "What?"

Max has gone very pale. His hands are rigid on his knees.

Oscar's stomach drops. Shit. Shit.

"What do you mean he doesn't want it?" Lando asks, looking at Oscar, then at Max. "Want what?"

Oscar opens his mouth. Closes it. He's just stepped on a mine and he knows it. He can see it in Max's face—the shock, the anger, the betrayal.

"Nothing," Oscar says quickly. "I didn't—"

Max turns away, jaw working. "You know what? Let's just—" He gestures vaguely at the screen, where the frozen image of Prost and Senna mid-collision stares back at them. "Let's get back to the race. Forget it."

"No." Lando's voice cuts through. Firm. "No, I'm not forgetting it."

Max looks at him, surprised.

"Something's going on between you two," Lando says, looking between them with sharp, tired eyes. "I'm not stupid. I can tell. So what is it?"

"Lando—" Oscar starts.

"Don't," Lando interrupts. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile. Don't act like I can't handle whatever this is." His voice is strained but determined. "Just tell me."

Oscar looks at Lando, and it feels like that moment in a race when you've committed to a completely wrong line and you realize, mid-corner, that there's no way you're making it through in one piece. The horrible, sinking certainty that you've fucked up.

And it's the last thing he wants—to burden Lando with this. To add more stress to someone who's already carrying too much.

But Lando's looking at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, and Oscar can't lie to him.

He exhales slowly. "Zak called me this afternoon."

Lando frowns. "Okay?"

"He—" Oscar glances at Max, who's gone very still. "He told me that Max hasn't signed his contract extension yet. That he's been... talking to other teams. Mercedes. Aston Martin."

The words land like stones in water.

Lando's face does something complicated. He turns slowly to look at Max. "Is that true?"

Max rubs his palms over his eyes—hard, like he's trying to physically push something away. "Yes and no."

"It's either you're extending or you're not, Max," Oscar says quietly. There's no anger in his voice now.

Max drops his hands. His face is pale, jaw tight. "It's not that simple."

"It kind of is," Oscar counters.

"It's really not," Max says, voice strained. "You don't—you don't understand—"

"Then explain it," Lando says. His voice is softer now, but there's something underneath it. Hurt, maybe. Confusion. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're planning to leave."

Max is speechless for a moment, mouth opening and closing like he's trying to find words that won't make this worse. Finally, he exhales shakily. "I just—I wanted to know if there were options. That's all."

"There are always options for a four-time world champion," Oscar says quietly. "But that's not the point, Max. The point is you've been telling us you're happy with us. You've been saying all the right things publicly. And the whole time—"

"I was happy," Max interrupts, and there's something desperate in his voice now. "I am happy. The car is incredible. The team is brilliant. You—" He looks at Oscar. "You're the best teammate I've had. But—"

"But what?" Oscar asks.

Max runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "Qatar. That's when it hit me."

Lando frowns. "What hit you?"

"What a two-number-one-driver team actually means," Max says. He's looking between them now, trying to make them understand. "I watched that race. I was sitting P5, you were sitting P1." He nods at Oscar. "The championship was yours. Literally already decided. And the team still—" He stops. Swallows. "They still gave us both equal strategy. Equal pit windows. No pressure for a team order."

"That's a good thing," Oscar says, confused.

"Is it?" Max challenges. "Because in that moment, watching it happen—watching McLaren commit so hard to the equal treatment thing even when it didn't matter—I realized how messy this is going to be. How chaotic. When we're both fighting for the championship in a full season. When every point matters. When the team has to choose between us and they've already promised they never will."

Oscar goes quiet.

Max continues, voice getting more strained. "It's going to be a disaster. We're going to be perfect on track—both of us, flawless—and the team is still going to fuck us over because they don't know what they're doing. Because they're trying to be fair when fairness doesn't win championships. And we're going to lose points to each other. We're going to cost each other wins. And eventually—" He stops.

"Eventually what?" Lando asks quietly.

"Eventually one of us is going to resent the other," Max says. "Or both of us will resent the team. Or the whole thing falls apart. Just like Prost and Senna. Just like Lewis and Nico. Just like every two-number-one system that's ever been tried."

He's looking at both of them now, and there's something pleading in his expression.

"It's not sustainable," Max says. "And I know you want it to be. I know McLaren thinks they can do it differently. But they can't. No one can. So I'm just—" He exhales. "I'm trying to figure out if I want to be part of that mess."

Lando shifts on the couch, and despite his obvious discomfort, his voice is firm. "That's not true."

But there's something else in his expression now. Something that looks like betrayal.

"I told you months ago this was a good option," Lando says, looking directly at Max. His voice is strained, hurt bleeding through. "I told you McLaren was the right move. That the team had the fastest car—clearly, obviously the fastest car. The one that would get you wins. I pushed for you. I convinced Zak. I—" He stops, swallows hard. "I thought you understood that. I thought you got that it was good for you to be with us."

Max opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw works. "It's not just about having the fastest car—"

"Then what is it about?" Lando demands. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're saying I was wrong. That I steered you wrong. That I—" His voice cracks slightly. "That I fucked up by bringing you here."

"No," Max says quickly. "That's not—"

"It is," Lando insists. "You're literally saying McLaren can't do this. That the team I love, that I've spent my entire career with, that I fought to build into something championship-worthy—you're saying it's not good enough. That we're going to fail."

"Lando—"

"And I told you this would work," Lando continues, and there's real pain in his voice now. "I promised you it would work. That McLaren was different. That we could do this right. And you—" He stops, breathing hard. "You agreed. You said you wanted this."

Max looks stricken. He glances at Oscar, then back at Lando. "I did. I do. It's just—"

But he doesn't finish. Because the hurt on Lando's face is too much. The realization that anything he says now will make it worse.

Oscar feels it settle in his chest—the crushing weight of guilt. This is his fault. He started this. He's the one who couldn't keep his mouth shut, who pushed when he should've stayed quiet, who brought this all out into the open when Lando is already exhausted and in pain and doesn't need this added stress.

"Okay," Oscar says quickly, trying to course-correct. "Okay, let's just—stop. This doesn't matter right now."

Lando turns to him. "What?"

"This whole thing. The contract stuff, the championship stuff—it doesn't matter." Oscar's talking fast now, desperate to fix what he's broken. "Your main job right now is to get better. That's the most important thing. For everyone. So you don't need to think about all this bullshit. You don't need to—"

"What do you mean by that?" Lando interrupts.

Oscar stops. "What?"

"'You don't need to think about this,'" Lando repeats, voice hard now. "What does that mean?"

"I just—" Oscar feels the ground shifting under him. "I just mean you've got enough on your plate. You don't need to worry about—"

"About what?" Lando's eyes are sharp despite his exhaustion. "About McLaren? About whether the team I've given everything to is going to fall apart? About whether the two people I—" He stops himself. "Don't tell me what I do and don't need to think about, Oscar."

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant," Lando says. "You're treating me like I'm fragile. Like I can't handle adult conversations. Like I need to be protected from—from reality."

"You're recovering from a bone marrow transplant," Oscar says, frustration creeping into his voice. "You're allowed to be fragile right now."

Lando's face goes very still. "Fuck you."

Oscar blinks. "What?"

"Fuck you," Lando repeats, clearer now. "Both of you."

"Lando—" Max starts.

"No." Lando's trying to stand now, movements jerky and uncoordinated. "I'm done. I'm done with this conversation. I'm done with—" He sways slightly, catches himself on the arm of the couch.

Oscar reaches out instinctively. "Let me help—"

"Don't touch me," Lando snaps, pulling away. "I don't need your help. I don't need either of you treating me like I'm some—some invalid who can't be trusted with information about my own team."

"That's not what we're doing," Oscar says desperately.

"It's exactly what you're doing." Lando's made it upright now, one hand still braced on the couch. His face is flushed—from anger or fever or both. "And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of everyone walking on eggshells around me. I'm sick of being left out of decisions because I'm 'too fragile' to handle them. I'm sick of—"

He stops. Sways again.

"Lando," Max says carefully. "You should sit down."

"I should go to my room," Lando says. "Where I don't have to listen to this bullshit."

"You're not well—"

"I'm fine," Lando says, even though he very clearly isn't. "And even if I'm not, that's my problem. Not yours."

Oscar feels panic rising in his chest. "Lando, please—"

"You know what?" Lando's voice is shaking now. "Fuck you guys."

And then he's moving—unsteady, too fast for someone who's been sitting for hours—toward the hallway. Toward his bedroom.

Oscar stands, starts to follow. "Lando—"

"Leave me alone!" Lando's voice cracks. "Just—leave me alone."

He makes it to his bedroom door, stumbles slightly on the threshold, catches himself. Then he's inside, and the door slams shut behind him.

The sound echoes through the apartment.

Oscar and Max stand frozen in the living room.

"Fuck," Oscar breathes.

Max doesn't say anything. Just stares at the closed bedroom door, face pale.

"I shouldn't have—" Oscar starts.

"We both shouldn't have," Max says quietly.

—

The rest of the night is a restless kind of quiet.

Oscar and Max don't talk much. They sit in the living room with the TV off, just—existing. Stewing in their guilt. Oscar keeps checking his phone for messages that don't come. Max gets up twice to pace, then sits back down.

Around 7pm, Oscar stands. "We should check on him."

"He said to leave him alone," Max says, but he's already standing too.

They approach Lando's bedroom door like it's a minefield. Oscar knocks softly.

"Lando? Can we come in?"

Silence.

Oscar tries again. "We just want to make sure you're okay."

More silence. Then, finally: "I'm fine. Go away."

Oscar and Max exchange a glance.

"We need to check your temperature," Oscar says through the door. "It's been two hours."

"I don't care."

"Lando—"

"I said go away."

They retreat. Give it another thirty minutes. Try again.

This time, Lando doesn't even respond.

Max looks at Oscar. "We can't just leave him in there."

"I know," Oscar says. "But if we push too hard—"

"It could make things worse," Max finishes. "Yeah."

Another hour passes. Oscar makes tea neither of them drinks. Max scrolls through his phone without reading anything. The apartment feels too big and too small at the same time.

At 9pm, they try again.

"Lando," Oscar says, knocking. "Please. We're sorry. About earlier. About all of it. We just—we need to know you're okay."

A long pause. Then the door opens a crack.

Lando looks worse. His face is flushed, eyes too bright. He's wrapped in his blanket like armor.

"What," he says flatly.

"Can we come in?" Oscar asks. "Just to check—"

"Fine," Lando says, stepping back. "Whatever."

Oscar and Max file in carefully. Lando's bedroom is dim, curtains drawn. The bed is unmade, pillows piled up like Lando's been trying to get comfortable and failing.

"We need to check your temperature," Oscar says gently.

Lando doesn't argue. Just takes the thermometer when Max hands it to him, puts it under his tongue without making eye contact.

The wait feels eternal.

The thermometer beeps.

Oscar takes it, looks at the display, and his stomach drops.

38.3°C.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Lando, you're running a fever."

Lando shakes his head, pulling the blanket tighter. "I'm not."

"It's right here—" Oscar shows him the thermometer.

"It's not a real fever," Lando says, voice defensive. "It's just—it's an emotional response. Not a real one."

Max frowns. "That's not a thing."

"It's definitely a thing," Lando insists. His hands are shaking slightly. "When you get stressed, your body temperature goes up. It's psychological. It's not—it's not infection or anything. It's just stress."

"Lando—"

"I'm fine," Lando says, but his voice cracks slightly. "It'll come down. It always does. I just need to—to calm down. To sleep. That's all."

Oscar looks at Max. Max looks back, both of them thinking the same thing.

The binder says to call the clinic at 38°C. They're at 38.3°C now. This is exactly what they were warned about.

"I need to call the clinic," Oscar says carefully.

"No." Lando's voice is sharp, immediate. "Don't."

"Lando, you're over 38—"

"I don't care." There's panic creeping into Lando's voice now. "Don't call them. Please."

"They need to know—"

"No!" Lando's almost yelling now. "No, Oscar. Don't call anyone. Just—don't."

Oscar stops, caught off guard by the desperation in Lando's voice.

Max steps forward. "Mate, we have to—"

"You don't have to do anything," Lando says, backing up until he hits the wall. His breathing is getting faster. "It's my body. My decision. And I'm telling you—don't call."

"Why?" Oscar asks gently. "Help us understand why."

Lando's eyes are too bright now—fever or fear or both. "Because if you call, they'll tell me to come in. And if I go in—" His voice breaks. "I can't go back there. Not again. I can't."

"Lando—"

"You don't understand," Lando says desperately. "You weren't there. You didn't—" He stops, swallows hard. "It'll pass. The fever. It always passes. I've done this before. I know what to expect. Just—give me a few hours. Please. It'll come down. I promise."

Oscar's chest aches. Because he can see it now—the real reason Lando's fighting them. It's not stubbornness. It's terror.

"What if it doesn't come down?" Max asks quietly.

"It will," Lando says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

"But what if it doesn't?" Max presses. "What if it gets worse?"

Lando doesn't answer. Just pulls the blanket tighter, like it can protect him from what's coming.

Oscar crouches down so he's at Lando's eye level. "We're scared too," he says softly. "We're terrified. But we can't just—we can't ignore this. Not when the binder specifically says—"

"Fuck the binder," Lando says, voice thick. "I don't care what it says. I'm not going back to the hospital. I'm not—" His breath hitches. "I can't do it again, Oscar. I can't."

"You won't be alone," Oscar says. "We'll come with you. Both of us."

"That doesn't matter," Lando says. "You can't—you can't make it better. No one can. It's still—" He stops. His hands are shaking badly now. "It's still tubes and machines and people poking me and—and feeling like I'm dying all over again."

Max sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd Lando but close enough to matter. "You're not dying."

"You don't know that," Lando says, and there's something broken in his voice. "Neither of you knows that. The fever could be nothing. Or it could be—" He can't finish.

Oscar wants to promise him it's nothing. Wants to say you'll be fine, it's just a fever, it'll pass. But he can't. Because he doesn't know.

"Hang on," Oscar says, frowning slightly. "You're saying it's nothing—just stress, just emotional—but also saying it could be something serious. It can't be both at the same time, Lando."

Lando opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes are glassy with fever and fear.

Max clears his throat. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do." His voice is calm, measured—the tone he uses in the car when everything's going wrong but he needs to stay focused. "Paracetamol. Cold compress. We monitor for one hour. If the fever doesn't come down in an hour, we call the clinic. No arguments."

"Max—" Lando starts.

"And if they ask us to come in," Max continues, voice firm but gentle, "we go. No negotiations. That's the deal."

Lando stares at him. Then at Oscar. There's a hopelessness in his eyes that breaks Oscar's heart—the look of someone who knows they're losing but doesn't have the strength to fight anymore.

Finally, Lando nods. Small. Defeated.

"Okay," he whispers.

Max stands immediately. "Right. I'll get the paracetamol. Oscar—"

"Cold towels," Oscar says, already moving. "On it."

They work quickly, efficiently. Max returns with pills and water. Oscar comes back with a stack of damp cloths from the bathroom, cool but not cold.

Lando takes the medication without complaint, hands shaking so badly that water spills on his shirt. Oscar pretends not to notice.

"Lie down," Oscar says gently. "On your back."

Lando complies, moving slowly like everything hurts. Oscar folds one of the cloths and places it carefully on Lando's forehead. Lando flinches at the contact, then relaxes slightly.

"Better?" Oscar asks.

"Yeah," Lando says quietly. "Thanks."

Max is standing awkwardly by the door, like he's not sure if he should stay or give them space.

Oscar makes the decision for him. "We're not leaving you," he says to Lando. Then, looking at Max: "Right?"

"Right," Max agrees immediately.

"Scoot over," Oscar says to Lando.

Lando blinks. "What?"

"Scoot over," Oscar repeats. "We're staying. All of us."

"In the bed?" Lando's voice is small, uncertain.

"Yes, in the bed," Oscar says. "Now move."

Lando shifts to the middle of the mattress—slow, careful movements. Oscar climbs in on his left side. Max hesitates for only a moment before getting in on the right.

It's intimate in a way none of them expected. The bed isn't small, but three grown men still means they're close—shoulders nearly touching, the heat of Lando's fever radiating between them. Lando's in the middle, still shaking slightly despite the blankets. Oscar on his left, Max on his right, both of them hyper-aware of every small movement, every labored breath.

They're trying to will him better. Like proximity alone could lower his temperature, could chase away whatever's happening inside his body.

Oscar's the first one to speak. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For earlier. I was being a dick."

"I was also being a dick," Max adds from the other side.

Lando's quiet for a moment. The cold compress is starting to warm against his forehead. Oscar reaches up to flip it to the cool side.

"Today was actually the best day I've had all year," Lando says finally. His voice is soft, slightly slurred from exhaustion and fever.

Oscar and Max both turn to look at him.

"What?" Oscar asks.

"Today," Lando repeats. "It was—you two reminded me what it's like to have stupid conversations about racing. About whether the 2019 season mattered, about V10s versus hybrids, about—about all of it. It made me feel like the old Lando again. The one who existed before—" He stops. Swallows. "Which is probably why I overreacted earlier. When I thought—when it felt like that was going away."

"You weren't overreacting," Oscar says firmly.

"I kind of was," Lando says. "I stormed off. I told you both to fuck off—"

"You had every right to," Oscar interrupts. "We were talking about your team, your career, your future—and we were treating you like you couldn't handle it. Like you needed to be protected from adult conversations."

"I did need protecting," Lando says quietly. "Just—not from that."

"From what, then?" Max asks.

Lando's quiet for a long moment. The compress is warming up again. Oscar changes it out for a fresh one.

"From feeling like I don't matter anymore," Lando says finally. "Like I'm not part of the sport. Like I'm just—this thing everyone has to work around. The guy who got sick. The guy who needs looking after. Not a driver. Not a person who has opinions about strategy or team dynamics or—" His voice cracks. "Or whether his own teammate is going to leave."

Max goes very still beside him.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty," Lando continues. "About the Mercedes and Aston thing. I know that's—I know that's your decision to make. But it hurt. Hearing about it secondhand. Realizing you were considering leaving and I didn't even know. Like I wasn't—" He stops. "Like I wasn't important enough to tell."

"That's not—" Max's voice is thick. "Lando, that's not why I didn't tell you."

"Then why?" Lando asks.

Max is quiet. Oscar can feel the tension in him, even across the bed.

"Because I was scared you'd talk me out of it," Max says finally. "And I—I didn't know what I wanted yet. I still don't. But I knew if I told you, you'd look at me with those—" He stops. Exhales. "You'd look at me like you believed I should stay. And I wasn't ready to make that decision yet."

"I do believe you should stay," Lando says. "I think you and Oscar could be—you could be something special. If you let it happen."

"Or we could destroy each other," Max says quietly.

"Maybe," Lando admits. "But isn't it worth finding out?"

Max doesn't answer.

Lando shivers slightly. Oscar pulls the blanket higher, tucks it around Lando's shoulders.

"You're still shaking," Oscar says.

"I'm cold," Lando says. "And hot. At the same time. It's weird."

"That's the fever," Max says. "Your body's trying to regulate."

"Well, it's doing a shit job," Lando mutters.

They lie there in the quiet, three bodies in one bed, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them.

Then Max speaks. His voice is low, almost reluctant—like the words are being dragged out of him.

"I'm scared I'll end up like Vettel."

Oscar turns his head. Lando's eyes open slightly.

"What?" Lando asks.

"Vettel," Max repeats. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, not looking at either of them. "Four titles at Red Bull. Untouchable. Then he left and—" He stops. Swallows. "And he was just another driver. Good, but not that good. Not special anymore."

"That's not—" Oscar starts.

"It is," Max interrupts. "Nobody else realizes how scary it actually is to leave Red Bull. The team that raised you. The team that made you their golden son. And then suddenly you're just—another guy in another team. And everyone's watching to see if you were actually good or if it was just the car."

"You're not just another guy," Lando says. His voice is scratchy but firm. "You're Max Verstappen."

Max laughs—short, bitter. "Yeah? For how long? Because I came to McLaren and suddenly the gap between me and Oscar—" He stops. Looks at Oscar now. "It's close. Too close. And that untouchable thing I had at Red Bull? It's starting to feel like it was just an illusion."

Oscar's chest tightens. "You still outqualified me six to four."

"That's still four times it shouldn't have happened," Max says flatly. "Four times you were faster than me. Four times the gap closed. And next year, over a full season—" He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.

The fear is clear: What if Oscar beats me? What if I'm not as good as I thought I was?

Oscar props himself up on one elbow, looking across Lando at Max. "My championship is always going to have an asterisk," he says quietly.

Max frowns. "What?"

"2025," Oscar says. "Everyone knows it. I won twelve races, yeah. But half the season I was racing reserve drivers because you and Lando were—" He stops, glances at Lando. "Because of everything that happened. So people will always say I got lucky. That I won because the competition wasn't there."

"That's bullshit," Max says immediately. "You earned every one of those wins—"

"Maybe," Oscar interrupts. "But there's always going to be doubt. People wondering if I could've done it if you'd been there from the start. If Lando had been racing." He pauses. "I want to earn the next one with you, Max. I want to beat you over a full season, equal machinery, no asterisks. Because that's the only way I'll know if I'm actually good enough."

Max stares at him. "You want me to stay so you can prove yourself?"

"I want you to stay so we can both prove ourselves," Oscar corrects. "Because yeah, it's going to be messy. Yeah, the team's going to fuck up. But that's—" He stops, searching for the right words. "That's the whole point. Racing the person who makes you better. Even if it costs you."

Max's jaw clenches. "What if it costs me everything?"

"What if leaving costs you more?" Oscar counters. "What if you spend the rest of your career wondering if you ran away because you were scared?"

"I'm not—"

"You are," Oscar says, not unkindly. "You're scared you're not as good as you thought you were. And instead of finding out for sure, you're looking for an exit. Somewhere you can be comfortable again. Somewhere you don't have to prove yourself every single weekend."

Max goes very quiet.

"But that's not who you are," Oscar continues. "You're Max Verstappen. Four-time world champion. You don't run from fights. You never have."

Lando makes a small sound—something between a laugh and a sigh. "You two are ridiculous," he mumbles. 

Oscar glances down at him. Lando's face is less flushed than it was before. The shaking has eased. His breathing is steadier.

Oscar carefully reaches for Lando's wrist, feeling for his pulse. Still fast, but not as frantic as before.

"How are you feeling?" Oscar asks quietly.

"Tired," Lando says. "Cold. But—better. I think."

Max sits up slightly, alert. "Better how?"

"Just—less hot," Lando says. "Less achy. The paracetamol might be working."

Oscar and Max exchange a glance. Hope, cautious and fragile.

"We still need to check your temperature," Max says. "It's been almost an hour."

Lando nods without arguing. That alone tells Oscar he's feeling better—the fight has gone out of him, replaced by something calmer.

Max reaches for the thermometer on the nightstand. Hands it to Lando.

They wait. Oscar counts seconds in his head. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.

The thermometer beeps.

Lando looks at it first. His expression does something complicated.

"What is it?" Oscar asks, heart in his throat.

Lando shows them the screen.

37.8°C.

Oscar's breath leaves him in a rush. "It's down."

"It's down," Max repeats, something like relief cracking his voice.

Not by much—only half a degree—but it's down. The fever is responding to treatment. Lando's body is fighting back.

"See?" Lando says, voice thick with exhaustion and relief. "I told you it would pass."

Oscar wants to point out that it's not passed yet, that 37.8 is still elevated, that they're not out of the woods. But he can't bring himself to. Not when Lando looks so relieved. Not when the fear in his eyes has finally eased.

Oscar's phone buzzes against the nightstand.

He fumbles for it, squinting at the screen. A video call. Cisca.

His heart lurches. Something's wrong. Something happened—

He accepts the call, bringing the phone close. "Hello? Cisca? Is everything—"

"Oscar!" Cisca's face fills the screen, bright and beaming. There's noise behind her—voices overlapping, laughter, someone saying something Oscar can't make out. "Sorry, love, Lando's phone died again. Is he there?"

Oscar's brain catches up. She's smiling. Nothing's wrong. "Yeah. Yeah, he's—" He looks over. "He's right here."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Of course." Oscar hands the phone to Lando. "It's your mum."

Lando takes it sitting up slowly. Max shifts beside him.

"Mum?" 

"Lando!" Cisca's face is radiant. "We tried calling you but your phone's dead—"

"Sorry, I forgot to charge—" Lando stops. His eyes widen. "Wait. Is—"

Cisca turns the phone, and suddenly the screen is filled with chaos. Lando's dad in the background, Oliver and his other sisters crowding around, all of them talking at once. And then—

Flo. Sitting on a hospital bed, hair tied back, face flushed and exhausted and glowing. And in her arms—

A baby. Tiny, wrapped in a blue blanket, face scrunched up and red.

Lando makes a sound—something between a laugh and a sob.

"Lando," Flo says, grinning despite obvious exhaustion. "Meet your nephew."

Lando's hand goes to his mouth. His eyes are shining. "Oh my god. Flo. He's—" His voice cracks. "He's perfect."

"He is," Flo agrees. "He's absolutely perfect. And he's got your nose, unfortunately."

"Oi," Lando says, but he's laughing. "That's a great nose."

"It's a terrible nose," Flo shoots back, but she's smiling. "But we love him anyway."

The baby makes a small sound—not quite a cry, just a little squeak—and Lando melts. Completely. Oscar watches him just—dissolve into this puddle of pure emotion, all the tension and fear from earlier evaporating.

"What's his name?" Lando asks.

"Charlie," Flo says softly. "Charles Adam Norris-Hall."

Lando's face does something complicated. "After Dad?"

"Of course after Dad," Flo says. "Who else would we name him after? You?"

"I'm deeply offended," Lando says, but he's grinning.

"You'll get over it," Flo says. She adjusts the baby slightly, and the camera catches his tiny fist waving in the air. "He's three hours old. Seven pounds, two ounces. Screamed his head off the second he came out."

"Already got opinions," Lando says. "Definitely a Norris."

The family erupts into laughter in the background. Someone—Oliver, maybe—shouts something about "Norris stubbornness" and someone else tells him to shut up.

Cisca takes the phone back, her face filling the screen again. "How are you, love? You look tired."

"I'm fine," Lando says automatically. Then, catching himself: "I had some cramping earlier. And a low fever. But it's better now."

Oscar and Max exchange a glance. 37.8 is not 'better', Oscar wants to say. But he doesn't. Not now.

Cisca's expression shifts—concern replacing joy for just a moment. "How low?"

"38.2," Lando admits. "But it came down. With paracetamol. I'm okay, Mum. Really."

Cisca studies him through the screen. Oscar can see her doing the mental calculation—deciding whether to push, whether to worry, whether to get on a plane right now.

"Oscar and Max are with you?" she asks.

"Yeah," Lando says. He glances at them. "They're—yeah. They're here."

"Good," Cisca says firmly. "Don't let them out of your sight."

"I won't," Lando promises.

"And if the fever comes back—"

"I'll call the clinic," Lando says. "I promise."

Cisca doesn't look entirely convinced, but she nods. "Alright. Well—good news. I'm coming back to Monaco first thing in the morning. Flight leaves at 6am."

Lando sits up straighter. "Really?"

"Really," Cisca says. "Flo's in good hands here. Your dad and sisters have it covered. And I need to get back to you. Get you ready for your appointment on Monday."

"The appointment," Lando repeats, something lighting up in his face. "To get cleared for travel."

"Exactly," Cisca says. "And if everything looks good—if the fever stays down, if the doctor says you're stable—we're all going home for Christmas."

Lando's breath catches. "Home."

"Home," Cisca confirms. "All of us. Together. For the first time in—" Her voice thickens. "For the first time in a long time."

Lando's eyes are bright again, but for a different reason now. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah."

"So you take care of yourself tonight," Cisca says. "You rest. You let Oscar and Max look after you. And I'll be there tomorrow."

"Okay," Lando says. "Yeah. I will."

There's more chaos in the background—someone calling for Cisca, something about the midwife needing to check Flo again.

"I have to go," Cisca says. "But I love you. So much."

"Love you too, Mum," Lando says.

"And boys—" Cisca's looking at the camera now, addressing Oscar and Max even though they're off-screen. "Thank you. For being there. For taking care of him."

"Of course," Oscar says.

"Always," Max adds.

Cisca smiles—warm and grateful—and then the call ends.

The screen goes dark. For a long moment, Lando just holds the phone in his lap, staring at it as if he can still see the image of his sister, his nephew, his whole, noisy, loving world.

A single tear tracks through the faint sweat still drying at his temple. He doesn’t wipe it away.

Oscar watches him. Watches the terrible, brittle tension that had held Lando rigid all day finally dissolve, leaving behind a profound, exhausted softness. The fear in his eyes has been replaced by a wonder so fragile it hurts to look at.

“Charlie,” Lando whispers to the quiet room.

Max, still propped on his elbow on the other side of the bed, lets out a slow breath. “Good name.”

Lando nods, a tiny, absent movement. He’s somewhere else—in their home in England, surrounded by the living, breathing proof that life barrels on. That beautiful, messy things happen while you’re busy just trying to survive.

The fever isn’t gone. The 37.8 on the thermometer is a promise to check again in an hour. The binder still lies open on the kitchen counter. The future—Max’s contract, Oscar’s ambitions, Lando’s fragile body—is still a tangled, uncertain knot.

But for this moment, none of that matters.

Oscar reaches over and touches Lando's forehead with the back of his own hand, a gesture that is both a check and a caress. The skin is still too warm, but the frightening, dry heat has gone out of it.

“You should sleep,” Oscar murmurs.

Lando’s eyes are already sliding shut. The adrenaline from the call is fading, leaving sheer depletion in its wake. He doesn’t fight it. He just nods, sinking back into the pillows between them.

Max shifts, pulling the duvet up to tuck it more securely around Lando’s shoulders. His movements are clumsy, unpracticed in care, but unbearably tender.

They don’t speak. There is nothing left to say that won’t break the spell.

Oscar lies back down, turning on his side to face Lando. Max does the same on the other side. They are bookends. Guard posts. A silent, living wall against whatever might come in the night.

Lando’s breathing deepens, evens out into the rhythm of true sleep. Not the pained, shallow breaths from before, but something calm and steady.

In the dim light, Oscar looks past Lando’s sleeping form and catches Max’s eye. Max holds his gaze. No challenge, no argument, no guardedness. Just a look of shared, staggering relief, and a fatigue so deep it feels woven into their bones.

Max gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

We’re okay.

He’s okay.

Oscar nods back.

For now.

It’s enough.