Chapter Text
The end-of-season gala always felt more like a performance than a celebration, one last push before the curtain finally dropped on a season he wanted to forget.
Music, champagne, laughter that sounded like static. All of it blurred together, and Oscar played his part as best he could. He smiled when expected, laughed in the right places, posed for photos with the sponsors. Said the things they wanted to hear.
He’d never been good at pretending he enjoyed it. His face always betrayed him
Around him, the crowd shimmered, factory staff and sponsors out of their polos for once, orbiting each other in sequins and suits, drunk on relief and victory that didn’t feel like his. Somewhere, someone was giving a speech about excellence or maybe teamwork and everyone had given up on pretending to listen. It was late, the air buzzing with talk of afterparties.
Oscar caught his reflection in a mirrored wall. Bowtie slightly off-centre. Shoulders drawn back just enough to suggest poise. A mask that almost fit.
He didn’t look like someone who’d gone to his room after Abu Dhabi and stared at the ceiling until morning. He didn’t look like someone who couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d failed at the only thing that mattered.
Not that he’d say it out loud. Not when Lando was across the room, laughing easily, the weightless champion. The one everyone wanted to talk to. The one who’d actually pulled it off.
“Oscar!”
He turned before he could stop himself, already registering who the voice belonged to.
Cisca Norris, flowy dress consisting of layers of brightly coloured fabrics, a warm, unstoppable smile across her face, was weaving through the crowd toward him. He’d seen that smile from the podium in Abu Dhabi as she watched her son. Now she was looking at him the same way. Kind, knowing, and it almost hurt more than the win itself.
“You look tired,” she said, before he could even greet her. “Still working too hard, aren’t you?”
He forced a smile. “Comes with the job, I guess.”
“Oh, nonsense. I hope you’ve got a big break planned.”
He didn’t. He never did. The silence stretched, and she was already flagging down a waiter for another glass of wine before he could come up with a lie. When she turned back, her eyes glittered with something like mischief.
“So,” she said, “what are you doing for Christmas this year?”
He hesitated. “Not sure yet. Probably just staying in Monaco. Mum and Dad are off on a cruise with my youngest sister before her OE. The others are with their partners. I’ll, uh, be offline for good.”
He tried to make it sound like a luxury. It didn’t.
He wondered, not for the first time, if it would’ve been different if he’d won. If his family would’ve rearranged their holidays for the newly crowned world champion. Then he scolded himself for even thinking it. They’d all been there in Abu Dhabi last week. They’d cheered. They were proud. That should’ve been enough.
“You shouldn’t spend Christmas on your own.” Cisca said it lightly, but there was a firmness beneath it, motherly authority cloaked in charm.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Really. I’m very ready for some quiet.”
Quiet. The word sounded like surrender.
He pictured it; the silence of his apartment, the echo of his own thoughts chasing him through every room. The endless scrolling, the analysis, the late-night what-ifs.
Quiet wasn’t rest. Quiet was punishment.
“Don’t you dare say that,” Cisca said, wagging a finger. “You’re coming to ours this year. I won’t hear another word.”
He blinked. “To yours?”
“Yes! Christmas in the Cotswolds! Oh it’s gorgeous, we do a big party on the 24th, family, friends, the whole circus. We’ll need help setting up, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
She smiled, a touch too pleased with herself, eyes glittering. .
“Come the day before to help out. We’ve still got the good guest room free, you’ll love it.”
He laughed, because that was easier than answering. “I’m sure Lando will be thrilled.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she said breezily. “He’s far too busy pretending to be important these days. He’ll be fine with it. He’ll be happy you’re there.”
Oscar almost said no. He could already see it: the tight smiles, the awkward small talk, the ghost of a friendship that used to feel effortless. But Cisca was looking at him with that mix of warmth and determination that made refusal impossible.
And maybe; just maybe, being alone wasn’t as appealing as he’d been pretending.
“I’ll… think about it,” he said finally.
She grinned. “Good. Thinking about it means yes. I’ll have Lando-” She stopped herself, then corrected, “-I’ll get your number from him.”
It was small - the stumble - but he caught it. And for half a second, he wondered if she and Lando had spoken about him. The thought twisted in his stomach, curiosity, embarrassment, something darker he didn’t want to name.
She patted his arm and swept away in a shimmer of fabrics and perfume, back into the crowd.
The noise of the room seemed too loud, the air too warm. Oscar stood there, untethered. Across the crowd, he spotted Lando, half-listening to some sponsor rep, bowtie hanging loose, curls damp with heat. Effortless. Always effortless.
Lando looked up, just once, and their eyes met.
Something flickered. recognition, surprise, something unreadable that Oscar refused to name.
Then it was gone.
Oscar waved down a waiter and took a flute of champagne. The bubbles caught in his throat. He was starting to hate the taste.
The quiet was supposed to help.
That was what everyone said. Switch off, decompress, take time for yourself. But less than twenty-four hours after the gala, Oscar was already sick of the quiet he was trying so hard to enjoy.
His Monaco apartment felt too still. Every sound. The hum of the fridge, the soft shuffle of the sea breeze against the balcony doors, echoed like an accusation. The apartment was beautiful in that sterile, high-end way, but it wasn’t home. It was a holding cell for someone pretending to live the dream. It was grey and cold outside, the city abandoned in favour of sun or snow, not the inbetween dreariness.
He had deleted socials that morning on the flight, telling himself it was for peace of mind. But he still saw the lingering ghost of his algorithm. Lando on the podium, waving at the crowd. The champagne rain. And in the background of almost every clip, him: half a step behind, clapping like a good sport, smile stretched too tight.
He hadn’t realised envy could leave a physical taste in his mouth.
He’d tried texting around, checking in on Christmas plans with the usual Monaco crowd. The other drivers, trainers, influencers, people who orbited his world but didn’t quite belong to it.
The replies trickled in, all variations on the same theme: Château in the Alps, Maldives for two, family yacht trip. No one was staying. No one said come with.
By early-evening it had sunk in. He’d miscalculated. He’d spent the year keeping everyone at arm’s length and now there was no one left within reach.
When the phone rang, the sound startled him.
He glanced at the screen and smiled despite himself.
Mum.
“Hey,” he said, leaning back on the couch.
“God, you sound awful,” she said by way of greeting. “How was the gala? I saw something on twitter about Zak getting up on stage to sing?”
Oscar huffed a laugh. “Yeah, he decided to serenade everyone with We Are the Champions. Drunk as anything. It was… painful.”
Nicole laughed loudly and he smiled into the phone at the sound. “God, sounds horrific kid. I’m kind of glad we had to rush home last week for Mia’s grad.”
Oscar flinched, he flushed slightly, feeling guilty for his thoughts last night.
“I’m sorry we weren’t there for you though, darl. Have you got any plans for the next couple of weeks?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s the thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Lando’s mum invited me to theirs for the holidays.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet!” she said immediately. “You should go!”
He groaned. “Ugh, I don’t know. Don’t you think it’ll be weird? I mean, we were mates once, but we’ve never been come home for Christmas mates. And now I don’t know if we’re even any kind of mates.”
“Maybe you need that,” she said gently. “It’s been a tough year for the pair of you. You’re stuck with each other for a while yet. As a mum, I think it’s a lovely offer. You should definitely pop in for a day at least.”
He leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I don’t know. I can’t help but feel like it’s a trap. Like they’ll poison me or something.”
Nicole gasped dramatically. “Oh hush, Cisca’s the nicest woman in the world.” She paused, then continued with a cheeky tone, “Just don’t eat any beef wellington if it comes out.”
He laughed, properly this time. “Yeah, noted. I’ll think about it. I guess I don’t wanna be alone.”
“Oh, darl…” her tone softened instantly. “You can come on the cruise with us, you know that. Or I could come up to you. Just say the word. I didn’t realise you’d be alone, I thought you’d have some mates around.”
The offer hit him in the chest. That mix of love and guilt that came from being someone’s kid, even at twenty four. He smiled, small and fond.
“No, Mum. This trip’s important. Mia goes off on her OE next month, you should absolutely do this cruise. She’d kill me if I crashed it. Look, I’ll do Christmas in London and pop in for a few hours on Christmas Eve. Cisca said they do some big party.”
“I think it’ll be good for you, darl,” she said warmly. “You’ve had your head down all year. Might be nice to lift it for a bit.”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
They chatted a little longer, about the cruise itinerary, about how Mia had already fake-tanned a familiarly bright shade of orange in anticipation, about how Oscar should really start eating something that wasn’t takeaways. He found himself smiling without meaning to. It felt good to be seen.
When they hung up, the silence rushed back in. He sat there for a long moment, staring at the ocean out his window. His phone buzzed on the coffee table with several WhatsApp notifications.
Lando’s name flashed on the screen.
He opened their chat, thumb hesitating at the top of the screen. Their most recent messages were from October, that dry, uncomfortable exchange that had barely counted as an apology.
Sorry, he’d written back then.
its ok, Lando had replied.
That was it. The end of something that used to be easy.
Now, three new messages blinked up at him.
sorry mate i didnt know, she conspired w/ our PA
u can say no she wont be mad
she might be a little mad
Oscar blinked at the screen, rereading them, trying to make sense of it.
Then a new message appeared from an unknown number, a PDF attachment, then:
Consider it my Christmas present! Can’t wait to have you over 🎅 xxxxx - Cisca
Followed by another:
Lando’s mum FYI xxxxx
He laughed, startled and disbelieving. Then he opened the attachment.
A PDF ticket. Flight from Nice to Bristol on the morning of December 23rd. Return on the 26th.
“Well, fuck,” he muttered to no one. “There goes my plan to pop in.”
He leaned back on the couch again, staring at the ticket on his phone screen. The smart thing to do would be to text back, politely decline, blame scheduling, whatever. But he didn’t. He couldn’t quite bring himself to.
Because beneath the dread, beneath the embarrassment and the bruised pride, something else coiled tight in his chest, something he didn’t want to look too closely at.
Fear that it would all be the same again. That he’d walk into that house and it would feel just like the gala; a celebration that wasn’t his, where every laugh came at the right volume, every smile was polite, and every story somehow circled back to Lando. He could already picture himself hovering at the edges again, tolerated out of habit, invisible beneath the noise.
But, it wasn’t just fear. It was something meaner, smaller. The part of him that thought maybe he deserved to feel that way again. Maybe that was the point. Maybe if he sat through it, the laughter that wasn’t meant for him, the praise that wasn’t his, it would balance the scales somehow. Punishment for not being good enough when it counted.
He could already imagine it: standing there again with a glass of champagne he didn’t want, watching Lando light up a room that didn’t even notice him fading into the background. He could almost feel the ache of it, and there was something grimly satisfying in that.
And yet, buried under that fear, something softer stirred. A tiny, treacherous thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be like that. Maybe it would feel different this time. Maybe it could. Maybe someone would notice if he disappeared.
He shut his phone before the thought could settle.
He wasn’t looking forward to it.
Definitely not.