Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Tracing Point
The noise was the first thing that grated against Oscar Piastri’s nerves. The McLaren Charity Karting Day at the Surrey circuit was a masterpiece of organised chaos throbbing pop music, the shrieking whine of miniature engines, and the deafening, joyous screams of about fifty children from local foster programs.
Papaya orange banners flapped in the breeze. The air was a thick soup of petrol, candy floss, and sunscreen.
Across the paddock, Lando Norris was in his absolute element. Oscar could hear his whoops of laughter over the din as he pushed a giggling pre-teen around the mini track in a two seater kart, mugging for the team’s social media cameras with a champion’s effortless grin.
Oscar had done his duty. He’d given careful, patient rides, signed tiny helmets, and smiled until his cheeks ached. But the sensory wall was closing in. The relentless screech of tyres, the blaring music, the sheer, undiluted volume of unchecked childhood energy it all pressed against his temples, a dull throb beginning behind his eyes. Seeking a sliver of quiet, he drifted towards the periphery of the activity, away from the track fence where the crowd was thickest.
That’s when he saw the boy.
Sitting alone on a low, grey retaining wall, far from the main action. He wasn’t watching the karts. He wasn’t looking at his phone or searching for a friend. He simply sat, knees drawn up to his chest, head down. He was wearing a faded blue t-shirt a size too big and sneakers that were scuffed white at the toes. One small, grubby finger was moving, tracing the same flaking, paint-chipped pattern on the concrete wall. Over and over. A perfect, silent circle.
Something in the child’s profound stillness caught in Oscar’s chest like a hook. He was an island of calm in a storm of manufactured fun.
Oscar approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. He crouched down, the material of his bright McLaren team kit rustling. He was now at eye level with a mop of soft, light brown hair.
“Hey,” Oscar said, his voice soft, the way he’d talk to a nervous engineer on the radio. “Finding a quiet spot?”
The boy’s finger stilled. He didn’t look up, but his head tilted a fraction, a rabbit sensing a presence.
“It’s pretty full on out there,” Oscar continued, nodding back towards the roar. “The engines are a bit much without earplugs, even the little ones.”
Slowly, with a gravity that felt ancient, the boy turned his head. His eyes were a startling, clear blue, like a summer sky after rain. They didn’t meet Oscar’s. Instead, they landed and locked onto the centre of his chest on the large, sleek McLaren speedmark logo, rendered in glossy black on the vibrant papaya.
A spark of focus. A silent click.
The boy’s hand lifted from the wall. His index finger, small and slightly dusty, reached out. He didn’t touch Oscar at first. He hovered an inch away, tracing the swooping shape of the logo in the air. His lips moved, forming silent, unpracticed curves.
“It’s a logo,” Oscar said, his own voice dropping to a whisper. “For my team. McLaren. We drive the fastest cars in the world.”
The finger finally made contact, landing on the centre of the emblem with a touch so light it was almost a ghost of a feeling. Then, he began to trace it for real. Down the smooth left arc, across the sharp, pointed tip, up the right side to complete the teardrop. His touch was reverent, full of a concentration so absolute it seemed to swallow all the sound around them. Down, across, up. Again.
A sudden, gunshot loud backfire from a kart on the track cracked through the air.
The boy flinched as if struck. A violent, full body jolt of terror. His tracing finger clenched into a tight, white knuckled fist. His eyes screwed shut, and a tiny, wounded sound a swallowed whimper escaped before he could trap it.
Oscar’s arms opened before his brain had fully processed the action. It wasn’t a thought it was a reflex. A silent, open offer of shelter.
The boy Oliver, he’d learn in a moment didn’t hesitate. He launched himself off the wall and into Oscar’s chest, burying his face directly into the logo he’d been studying, small hands fisting desperately in the fabric. Fine tremors wracked his small frame.
Oscar closed his arms around him, creating a protective huddle against the world. He could feel the frantic, rabbit fast beat of the child’s heart against his own steady rhythm. “Shhh,” he murmured into the soft hair, his cheek resting on the boy’s head. “It’s okay. It’s just a bad sound. It’s all gone now. I’ve got you.”
He stayed there, frozen in the awkward crouch, holding this stranger’s child who clung to him as if he were the only anchor in a tempest. The vibration of silent crying seeped through his thin team shirt. Oscar found his own hand moving in slow, steady circles on the small back, a calming rhythm as instinctive as breathing.
A frazzled looking woman with a volunteer lanyard hurried over, her face flushed. “Oh! Oliver! There you are, love. Sorry, he’s a wanderer.” She gave Oscar an apologetic smile that didn’t reach her tired eyes. “He’s… quiet. Doesn’t say much. He’s in care. His foster mum’s got six others here today, easy to lose one.”
Oliver. His name was Oliver.
Oscar didn’t loosen his hold. “It’s fine,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears low, protective, final. “We’re okay here.”
The woman hovered for a second, then was called away by another shouting child. Oliver didn’t budge. His breathing began to slow, deepening, syncing gradually with the rise and fall of Oscar’s chest. The desperate fist unclenched slightly, and the tracing began again. Not on the logo now, but on the fabric over Oscar’s sternum. The same soothing, repetitive motion. Down, across, up.
From across the circuit, Lando’s triumphant laugh cut through the distance. Oscar glanced up to see his teammate being mobbed by a group of kids for selfies, his championship winning smile blinding under the sun. It was a scene from a different planet.
In his arms, Oliver traced his silent, comforting circle. Down, across, up.
And in that moment, on a sun-drenched patch of forgotten concrete, something fundamental in Oscar Piastri’s ordered, data driven world quietly broke apart. A fissure opened deep inside his chest, a fault line he never knew existed, and this small, terrified boy with sky-blue eyes and tracing fingers slipped straight into the crack, settling in as if he’d always belonged there.
He wasn’t just holding a child. He was holding a piece of a future he’d never dared to imagine, and it felt more real, more terrifying, and more right than pole position ever had.