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The moment Lando steps out of the car, he knows.
At this point, it doesn’t matter that he’s won the world championship. That he’s got the fastest car underneath him, or that indescribable feeling of a weight being lifted off your chest that’s been worn for so long that it might as well be a second skin.
It doesn’t matter that he’s got everything a younger him once wanted.
He leaps up into his team’s waiting arms with a passion he doesn’t feel, finds himself screaming, though he supposes it doesn’t really matter if it’s in joy or sorrow. He notices, distantly, hands, arms, bodies wrapped around him, holding him close.
He’s never felt more alone in his life.
His wrist aches, a constant, dull throb that tugs painfully at his soul. He knows, in his heart, that it always will, from here on out. There’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do, to change the little shredded trail that flutters uselessly from it.
It’s more of a clump of threads at this point.
His team sets him back down, and he musters the biggest smile he can, pulling off his helmet. The sound of the roaring crowd washes over him, and he pretends to bask in it for a moment, throwing his head back as tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
He’s gotten better at faking it, these last few months.
He remembers a time when he wasn’t. When he wore everything he felt on his sleeve, to the point where he might as well have been screaming it at the stars.
Soon enough, though, even his family had gotten tired of it.
He hadn’t listened, at first. When they told him to pipe down, eat his food, and go do his homework. He’d insisted on jumping into that damned cart every chance he got, like every single evening would be his last.
When the little red ribbon appeared on his wrist one fateful Sunday morning, he’d brushed it off. He’d known what it was, of course. Most people had a little red string of fate wrapped around their wrist, a gentle yet constant tug urging them to find their other half. Those that didn’t, in his experience at least, didn’t seem to mind at all.
Call it fate, the universe, god, whatever, it didn’t usually make mistakes. It was even semi-common to have two or three or four strands, each corresponding to a different soulmate. Lando had always considered himself lucky that he didn’t have more than one to find, eventually, at least. Besides, it was only visible to you and your soulmate(s), so it didn’t really affect you much.
Now, he does his best not to dwell on it.
It’d been years before he ever laid eyes on his soulmate, and even that first time, the twitching of the little red strand, tugging him towards the Aussie, had been the only indication that there was something special about him.
There’d been no spark, no glint of interest or passion in Oscar’s eyes, despite the fact that Lando could see the slightest hint of red peeking out from underneath his watch band.
That day feels like a far-off fever dream now.
— — —
They’d tried.
Of course they had.
(it didn’t matter, in the end)
— — —
It’d gone well, the first year. Lando would even say he’d been…happy. It’d taken a while for the mask to finally melt off his face, the constant, childlike joy he wore like a second skin instead of voicing what was truly underneath.
He’d found the best way to make it authentic was to give it depth, layers that he can peel off in the blink of an eye, letting each person he’s met see a slightly different Lando, each more refined and meticulously picked over than the last. It’d taken almost a year with Oscar to realize how far he’d fallen, how deep his lies truly ran.
He’d hollowed himself out, carved out bits and pieces that others didn’t like and replaced it with another band-aid, more stitches over a wound that he himself had created.
It’d been his ache for Oscar, he learned, that he was trying so desperately to fill, and it took an agonizingly long amount of time for him to finally fill it.
But those few precious months towards the end of 2023 where it had? Where he finally had someone that could peel back all the layers to find the rotting corpse sobbing underneath? Those had been the best months of his life. He’d felt like he was finally getting somewhere, finally doing something that wasn’t an incessant apology for his very existence.
And then, the 2024 season.
The car was fast. Ridiculously so. It might as well have turned into a rocket ship overnight.
Miami that year was definitely the greatest night of his life, with his soulmate standing beside him, matching his ever so slightly feral grin. The party had lasted until well into the twilight hours where the night surrendered its heavy blanket of cold over to the delicate rays of pre-dawn light.
That was the first time Lando had ever said the words “I love you.”
Oscar had simply greeted the declaration with a tight-lipped smile and a curt “let’s get you to bed, race winner.”
When he had awoken hours later, the comforting hand of his soulmate rubbing his back and a large glass of water resting on the nightstand next to him, he’d felt content. Safe, wrapped in the comforting warmth of his soulmate’s embrace, last night simply a heavy white curtain in his mind, leaving only the vague ghost of a memory in its place.
— — —
They’d tried.
Of course they had.
(it didn’t matter, in the end)
— — —
Hungary was when the first cracks started to show. It was the team, really, that had fucked it up that time. Pitting Lando first, then a slow stop for Oscar, and Lando had slipped right by.
If he had been out of the car, it would have been easy. He would have done anything, anything for his soulmate back then. Would have cut off his own arm, would have given up his F1 seat entirely if it meant spending the rest of his life with Oscar.
But F1 drivers are very different creatures when there’s a steering wheel in their hands and an engine humming beneath their feet.
Out there, he’s hungry, aching for that next rush of adrenaline that comes with a hard-fought win and a good points haul. Every little scrap that he can claw back from the shreds of what was the younger, cockier, Lando.
As soon as he got back to the garage, he felt nothing but pure, unbridled joy for the man he loved more than anything else in the world. A halo of champagne around him and a fiery grin on his face, accentuated by the roar of the crowd behind him, Lando would’ve dropped to his knees right then and there in worship to his soulmate.
That word hadn’t felt right, in that moment. Hadn’t felt close enough, intimate enough, for the pure, unbridled adoration he had felt for Oscar.
The hotel room later that night had been a completely different story. Oscar, drooling slightly while curled up into a ball underneath the sheets, looked nothing more than just a man, so vulnerable and exposed under Lando’s heavy gaze.
That had been the first night they hadn’t woken up in each other’s arms after a race.
Life had moved on, after that. They’d spent evenings back in Monaco together, gone out to eat, smiled, laughed, shared race victories and failures in equal measure.
The whole race had seemed to blow over like leaves in the wind.
Even Vegas, where he officially lost the title, wasn’t too horrible. He spent it with Oscar, who kept him from getting too blackout drunk, and who carried him to his hotel room when the night was winding to a close.
The next morning, he found a note and a small glass of water on the nightstand, an invitation to breakfast when he woke up and an address enclosed within.
— — —
2025 was a different beast entirely.
They had a proper title fight in their hands.
Australia stung, despite his win. Oscar didn’t deserve to spin, after all. He took care of the Aussie when he went out, guided him to bed when he was puking out his guts and was there when he woke up.
Just as the man had done for him after his bad results.
But then Oscar won in China. And kept winning.
Bahrain.
Saudi.
Miami.
Monaco.
Spain.
By the time Canada rolled around, Lando had felt exhausted. Worn out, like all the blood had been drained from his body ten times over just trying to keep up with him.
There’d even been a few nights when Oscar had slept in his own room, only sending Lando a brief “good morning” text before hopping on his plane to head home.
After Canada, though, things were different. Back to the old days, more in line with late 2023. Oscar spent the night with him, held his hand and cradled him when he burst into tears, letting him fall asleep on his chest.
The crash was his fault, of course. He’d said as such the instant it happened, and repeated it over and over to the media, the team, Oscar, anyone who’d listen.
But that didn’t change the fact that he’d just taken a knife to his title chances.
— — —
They’d tried
Of course they had
(it didn’t matter, in the end)
— — —
Austria and Silverstone were sweet, at least.
Holding the first place trophy at his home race, listening to them roar his name?
Yeah, he could’ve gotten used to that.
But, when he’d left the track that afternoon, Oscar was nowhere to be found. Not in either of their hotel rooms, nor at the club Lando had texted to him, nor anywhere in Monaco when he got back the next day.
He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t answered anything Lando sent him.
His soulmate had simply become a ghost in the breeze, the little red trail attached to Lando’s wrist hanging limply, not tugging him towards his other half for the first time since that faithful day back at the factory all those years ago.
Lando had tried to find him, in Belgium. But, after all the media and the interviews and the cameras, he’d simply turned his back on Lando, turning to go over data with his race engineer or talk to some other member of the team.
That was the first time standing on the podium left him feeling more empty than when he climbed up it. Oscar didn’t even try to spray him, just dove straight for Charles.
By that point, he knew it wasn’t an accident.
That didn’t make it sting any less when the Aussie climbed off on the opposite side of the podium then him.
— — —
Zandvoort, of course, was where it all fell apart.
P2 to a fucking DNF. He wanted to kill someone.
He had it. Was right up there, had it all under control. But. That. Fucking. Car.
The same car that’d taken him to countless victories, 1-2s shared with his other half, and finally hauled McLaren out of the midfield, for good this time, had failed him.
34 points wasn’t even the worst of it, though.
No, the worst part was the empty bed and the cold hotel room, the phone filled with dozens of notifications, and yet not a single one from the man he needed the most.
He still doesn’t know how he managed to haul himself out of bed that day, his body sore and worn out from yesterday’s race and yet none of the quiet satisfaction that came with another race completed and a good points haul for the team.
He hopped in the shower, turning the water as icy as possible, letting the cold shock his system. It felt good, amazingly good, to just let the cold wash over his skin and down the drain, pulling with it the sadness, the rage, the hollow ache deep in his gut that had returned with a vengeance the day Osc- he’d stopped calling.
By the time he climbed out of the shower, dried himself off and brushed his teeth, he felt better. More put together, even though he knew he was still being ripped apart at the seams.
He paused for a moment to fix up his damp curls in the mirror, doing his best to ignore the face that stared back at him.
He failed, of course.
He noted the small things first; the slightest bruising underneath his eyes, concerning despite the fact that the media team could fix it in a heartbeat. The tense set his shoulders and neck, not quite properly stretched out after yesterday’s race. The flaky dryness of his lips, irritating, sure, but there’s always been something else on his mind right after he’d thought to fix it.
The most obvious thing, though, was his wrist. He sighed heavily, fiddling with the icy clasp of his watch. Sponsor’s, obviously, because he’d forever be a walking advert for the rich and powerful.
He unclasped it, letting it slip out of his fingers and fall to the countertop with a soft clink. He sucked in a shaky breath, but couldn’t look away from the poor, shredded mess that hung from the slightly raised bump of his wrist bone.
It hurt; a dull, aching throb that reached somewhere deep inside, past muscle and sinew and bone, into his very soul.
It fluttered weakly in the nonexistent breeze, not even tugging, just kind of hanging there, limp, useless.
Kind of like how he felt right now.
- Fucking. Points.
He wasn’t even surprised when the first tear dripped down, down, down his cheek before falling into the sink, too tiny to make a sound. Light bended weirdly around tears, he noticed, creating a tiny spot of brightness where the reflection from the overhead light shone down.
More joined the first, slowly at first, then all at once, until he was watching miniature rivers of them flowing towards the drain. It was kind of satisfying, in a way, watching them fall. He let them take the last vestiges of his passion, the loving heartache he felt for the man he’d once wanted to marry.
When the last of them finally trailed off into nothing, he took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, looking up into the mirror once more.
He felt more relaxed; some of the tension had left his neck and shoulders, and he felt lighter, stronger as he let the mask snap back into place over his features. He set the small, almost imperceptible smile, the slight, delicate curve of his brow and the proud set of his shoulders, just as he used to do in the years before-no.
He swallowed around the thought, slamming down the door to that corner of his mind as quickly as he could.
The only thing he couldn’t quite fake was that glint of passion, energy in his eyes. He’d never quite managed it, even in the months since. It’s the only part that betrays the hollowed-out, dead man inside.
The only man that would’ve noticed is gone now, anyways.
There was no pain that came with the thought, only a cold, detached acknowledgment.
By the time he stepped out of that hotel room, suitcase clutched in one firm hand and backpack slung over his shoulder, the last of his love for his teammate had crumbled to dust, leaving behind the hardened shell of a man.
The only thing left now is to win the title, I suppose.
— — —
They’d tried
Of course they had
(it didn’t matter, in the end)
— — —
Monza was a roller coster, all thanks to the team’s fuck-ups, yet again.
Lando wanted to thank god that his teammate had some semblance of respect in his soul, at least, whether it be from pity or the last vestiges of love the man still held for him, because it meant that he was that much closer, had that much more momentum going into the next race.
But Mexico?
Brazil?
Even in Austin and Baku, both shitty races, still yielded more points in the bag against his teammate.
Ultimately, even the team isn’t enough to stop him from taking the title in Abu Dhabi. Standing here, basking in it, he can almost, almost convince himself that it matters. That it means something, like those moments at the end of 2023 used to.
It feels hollow, though, when he lifts the third place trophy like it’s the championship one.
It feels hollow when Max and his teammate bathe him in a mountain of stinging champagne and the crowd roars his name.
It feels hollow when he climbs into his car after all the media and press, sees the text from Max among all the congratulatory junk. It’s an invite to a party on one of Max’s rich friends’ yachts. He accepts, figuring it’s what the championship winner should be seen doing.
It feels hollow two days later when he accepts the actual trophy, speaking some semi-joyful bullshit into the mic while peering through the crowd at his teammate, who’s sitting at his table with a woman beside him, his head thrown back in silent laughter. A thin, red trail, almost blinking in and out of existence in its subtlety, connects their wrists. Another clump of destroyed red sits just below it on Oscar’s- he stumbles over his words as they tumble out of him in a rush.
It feels hollow when he realizes her wrist is smooth, unadorned, save for the single crimson ribbon connecting the two of them.
It feels hollow when he collapses back into his seat between Zak and Andrea.
“I want Oscar gone.”
A long beat of silence follows, before he adds, “or I’m gone. Tonight.”
Zak opens his mouth to speak, but Lando beats him to it. “Don’t bullshit me. I know you can. Right here, right now, and I’m yours until the day this team fucking dies.”
Zak and Andrea exchange a loaded glance, then look back at him. “Lando, we need at least a season-” Andrea starts, but Lando cuts him off, still not looking at either of them.
“I want him out. Done. Gone from this team, from formula one. Forever.” Lando looks over at Zak, then Andrea, then back to the empty stage, the presentations paused for the moment while they eat. His gaze is a fathomless void of nothing. “I don’t care who you have to call, what you have to say or do, I want him gone. Cut my salary in half for all I care. You do that, and I will race my fucking hardest for this team until the day you decide to burn me at the stake.”
Another loaded glance, then Zak picks up his phone and starts typing rapidly. “Deal.”
Andrea makes a choked-up noise in the back of his throat, staring at Zak. “What?” It’s a little loud, and the neighboring tables throw them a few confused glances before turning back to their own meals. “Zak, we can’t just do that-” he says, his voice lower.
“Yes we can. Or did you forget about Oscar’s exit clauses? You heard the kid, it’s him or Lando. I choose a driver that won’t bail on us the minute things go sideways.” Zak’s typing stops, his thumb hovering over some unseen send button.
Andrea takes a swig of his drink, his glare shifting from Zak to Lando to Zak again. “Fine,” he spits out.
Zak hits send. “It’ll take a while to sort out all of the reshuffling and contracts and things. And his replacement, of course. But, it can be done, we made sure of that when Mark came to us with contract renegotiations. And, with the new regs and the right buttons pressed, we can maybe fulfill your other requirement. Maybe.” It’s no louder than the rest of the conversation, but it comes as the rest of the room lapses into a moment of silence, and so Oscar’s head whips around, his eyes wide as they meet Lando’s.
Lando lets the carefully crafted mask slip for a single moment, a smirk dancing across his features. He grabs the glass of champagne in front of him, raises it up in a silent toast to his former teammate.
Oscar swallows, glances over at the woman sitting next to him who’s laughing at what someone else at the table said, then back to Lando. It’s then, Lando knows, that Oscar realizes what he’s done. How badly he hurt Lando by simply vanishing like smoke in the wind to be with his other soulmate that Lando doesn’t share with him.
Lando takes a long, languid sip, making sure that the shredded end of his ribbon is visible underneath the loose watch.
You burn my life down, I burn yours, his gaze seems to say.
“Good.”