Work Text:
DECEMBER 7, 2025
*Lando*
Seeing him again in Abu Dhabi was like a blow to the soul. I only understood that expression when I saw Oscar again in the hotel and then in the paddock.
Of course they had us do the press with Max, and, again of course, they asked us the questions everyone expected, but those weren't what triggered that "blow to the soul." I felt it as soon as I saw him in the hotel, when he smiled at me. Before that moment, I had feared that if he saw me, he would never smile like before.
Then, as if he sensed me, because I was in extraordinary silence, he turned, noticed me, and smiled at me with such sweetness that I thought I'd missed a piece. We got back together and I forgot about it because now I'm even crazy?
But then he started acting like he did in Qatar again. Tense, stiff, restrained. He limited his contact with me and even our exchanges, but he continued to be an open book, letting me see the effort he made to behave this way because he thought it was best for him, but in reality, deep down, he was suffering. He didn't want to be so separated, but once he makes a decision you you don't move him, so he remained in his position and I respected that.
Because if he had wanted, a snap of his fingers would have been enough to convince me to get back together with him right away.
But my show of strength continued even afterward, in every press we had. Whether we were sitting next to each other or far away, the glances that escaped us after some provocative question were unmistakable. And to think that I even tried to control myself. I tried, but without success, because control isn't one of the things I've worked on successfully.
I worked hard on concentration and staying positive and optimistic, on seeing the good things about myself and not focusing on the bad things that aren't working. But control over myself, no, we haven't had time to work on that.
I think it showed, but I couldn't help it.
Just looking into his eyes was enough to make me lose myself and long to be able to touch him, with that hand resting on the backrest just inches from him. But I clenched into a fist to stop myself. It was so hard, so fucking hard, even though I finally succeeded.
It's just that I felt like I was putting all my strength into not doing exactly what I wanted with Oscar. Especially because he was giving me clear signals: he looked at me with his usual sweetness and desire.
He wants me exactly like two, three weeks ago, like he's wanted me all year, always.
Knowing he wants me as much as I do and not being able to touch each other is damn torture. If he ignored me, hated me, resented me, acted like an asshole, it would be easy. But this is damn impossible. Yet I have to.
I have no choice. It's one of those things where you either do it this way or you do it this way, so even if it's tough I'll keep going, trying to focus on the race.
A third place finish is enough for me tomorrow. I'll start second. I can do it.
Max will definitely win the race, I have no doubt about that. Oscar will try to overtake me to have the best race possible, considering that Max is the strongest right now.
I just have to focus on maintaining third place. I know it will be like this. It's one of those things that's already written. I'm not inferior to Oscar, neither in terms of car nor personal qualities.
Until a few months ago I believed that; I was convinced that Oscar was simply stronger than me and maybe that's what brought me down.
Now I know that I'm good too and that we're on the same level, we have exactly the same chances, it's just that I had a breakdown before him and had time to recover, while he didn't. He had terrible timing, but that's nobody's fault. That doesn't mean one is better than the other.
Except I'm sure he'll overtake me because he's racing for an impossible first place and I'm racing for a third. That's the way it is, in fact.
I'll never let George or Charles or anyone overtake me, but I can already foresee the race ahead.
And if it really goes the way I think it will, I'll be world champion, but I'm forcing myself with all my remaining strength, which is obviously scarce, not to think about it.
Anything could happen.
I remember 2010 perfectly; how could I not? I was 11, I was little and I was already following F1 like crazy. When Seb pulled off his feat, I remember as if it were yesterday. He made the whole world dream.
The third to win the world championship? His first? So young, too?
A fairytale.
But it's a ghost that hovers over us, that no one dares to speak of. His victory was possible in that race because anything happened, and anything can happen tomorrow.
I try to focus on the race and all the scenarios, because for me now it's better to think about the F1 catastrophes that could take away my title, rather than remembering that Oscar is a few rooms away and that I could crawl into his bed and lose myself in him as I wish so badly.
So I think about all the ways I could lose the World Cup tomorrow, because it hurts less than thinking about Oscar.
Tomorrow is finally December 7th. Tomorrow, somehow, it will all end. Finally. God, I can't take it anymore.
*Oscar*
I didn't think it was so difficult. I thought it was the only solution and that once I made that choice, once I returned to that previous state, everything would be fine.
I'm doing well. I can't say I'm not doing well. I race much better without Lando as a lover, but every time we're together, due to some imposition from F1 or McLaren, I can't control myself. My face opens into sweet, spontaneous smiles, my eyes communicate secret messages that I don't know whether to hope will catch them or not.
Namely, that tomorrow we'll be back together, to hold on, to never stop believing, to never give up on me, to never think it's over. That I'll keep my promise. Tomorrow, after the race, we'll be back to how we were before.
Will he see it from my eyes?
Am I expressive enough?
But the point is another, as I systematically distance myself every time I end up doing things with him, especially after qualifying and the press.
The point is I thought I had more control. That I just had to stop my process of change and everything would be fine. It worked in part, but there's something inside me that doesn't want to cooperate.
I toss and turn in bed nervously.
Me, am I getting nervous? There's never been a moment in my life when that's happened. I've always managed to rationalize everything, especially races.
There's no point in thinking about it beforehand; only by getting out on the track can I solve everything. Instead, now I toss and turn and for the umpteenth time, I realize that F1 has nothing to do with it. It's not because of tomorrow's race, I'm feeling like this and can't sleep.
It's Lando.
I see the terror in his eyes every time we look at each other. The terror that it's over, that there's no way back, that we're telling each other lies.
Because he looks at me in a turmoil filled with wonderful emotions: hope, fear, love. And then he immediately looks away, lowers his gaze and tries to hide it, but obviously it hurts because he doesn't really know how to do it and he shows me his terror, his suffering.
I'm forcing him to grow up all at once, in an excruciating moment. He should only think about winning the world championship, not this. How selfish am I? But I have to, I have to or I'll hate myself and then I won't be able to get back with him tomorrow.
If I didn't do everything I could to try to win, until it's truly mathematically impossible, I'd hate myself and I'd hate him. I'm doing it for us.
I get out of bed cursing. I've never been like this, never.
If I don't sleep, tomorrow I'll forget about the race of my life. I have a responsibility to myself; I have to solve this problem or it'll be a mess.
I leave my room and walk like a ghost through the dark, nocturnal corridor of this luxurious hotel in the United Arab Emirates.
I know exactly which room is his and I stop in front of his and freeze there. I stare, my fists clenched at the sides of my body. I take a deep breath, staring at the door as if it were my enemy.
Do I knock or not? What the hell do I do? What the hell am I doing?
I'd throw it all at hell and hate myself anyway, and I'd ruin Lando too, because I'd destabilize him too much. Somehow, I'm sure I'd destabilize him. Now, the inhuman effort he's making to stay separated from me and focused only on the race, must remain intact.
Don't knock, Oscar.
Go back to your room. Don't do anything. Tomorrow it will all end; however it ends, the important thing is that it ends.
So I sigh, shake my head and feeling just as bad as before, I go back to my room.
Although, all things considered, I might feel better; I realize this as I lie back under the covers.
In the end I made the right choice, not knocking on his door.
I don't know if anything I'm doing will ultimately help, tomorrow in the race, but I'm sure my conscience will be clear and I won't hate myself for my failed attempts.
Tomorrow it all ends. Tomorrow is finally the damned 7th of December. Finally, tomorrow this torture will end.
Just hold on until tomorrow, Oscar.
*Lando*
I wake up with the shadow of his feet in front of the door and I think about that shadow, in that low crack in the floor, practically all day. Especially when I see him at breakfast and then afterward at the big final McLaren briefing, before each team goes their separate ways.
I cast a meaningful glance at Oscar, a look that says 'I know it was you.'
I remember how at a certain point I opened my eyes, huffing and puffing, trying to fall asleep, when then I saw a shadow under the door, from outside the room. That shadow was two feet. I held my breath propping myself up on my elbow, my heart in my throat, my hopes sky-high. I was ready to throw all my efforts to hell and run into your arms, Oscar. I know it was you.
It would have been stupid and you don't do stupid things, but for a fucking moment I hoped, I waited for your knock, and when you left I instinctively rushed to the door. It was the right choice, to leave and do nothing, but I came out like a hurricane hoping to stop you, but you had already disappeared into your room.
I stopped, I didn't go to you.
Of course it was the right thing to do, I knew it, but damn, it hurt.
I want to tell I saw him, but my mouth stays sealed and he returns my gaze with another that seems to apologize for not having found the courage to come in.
How the hell are we going to get back together? Isn't what we're going through atrocious? Or maybe I'm the one who exaggerates everything I feel and experience because I'm the same stupid, impulsive, emotional idiot?
I have all the flaws.
No, Lando, stop, you'll only hurt yourself.
You have a race. The last one. The one that will end everything.
Yes, it will all end, for better or worse.
But then? What will be left of us? Will there still be an "us" or are we just fooling ourselves?
Reality always surpasses fantasy, especially because I'd never dared to imagine myself winning.
The moment I crossed the finish line in third place—with Charles tailing me for most of the race making me shit in my hand, that asshole wanting to hand the world championship to his damned boyfriend, and he almost succeeded—everything disappears.
Everything fades.
My brain shuts down, there's not a shred of rationality left, every residual capacity for thought is erased and only emotion, joy and tears remain.
Tears like rivers. I can't stop crying, screaming and cheering. They're instinct, emotions and heart. I have no restraint, I don't understand what's happening, I just know I've never been so happy.
I'm the F1 world champion, my childhood dream has come true.
As I celebrate and cry, flashes of when I didn't believe I could do it resurface, reminding me how much I never believed in myself, how much I never believed I could do it until recently, when I managed to race freely and calmly, without making mistakes.
I always believed my ADHD would prevent me from achieving important goals and that I wasn't that talented, not at the level of Max, Lewis, Seb and anyone who has won a world championship. While everyone around me told me I actually had that talent, I thought they were wrong.
Good things happen to others, I can't stay focused; I have a flaw too serious for someone who wants to win a world championship. World championships are won by remaining perfect for 24 races, and each race is run over two days for the qualifying.
But I did it. In my own way, without that constant perfection. Without perfection in general. I know I wasn't at the level of the great champions, but somehow I managed it. I came back when I was lost and I climbed out of the shit I'd sunk into. And I didn't win like a perfect champion, I won my way, riding full of mistakes and imperfections. I won by screwing up. Falling and getting back up. Asking for help from the team, psychologists, family, friends, asking for help from everyone, and everyone helped me. I didn't win, many of us won, but who I have to thank, who I really have to thank now, is only one.
Oscar materializes in front of me, I'm still wearing my helmet and inside I'm in a sea of tears.
He, on the other hand, has already taken everything off.
He comes towards me, smiles at me in that particular way of his, a mixture of disappointment, congratulations, sweetness and mystery.
He evades my gaze, aided by the helmet I'm wearing, and right now I can't do better. But this embrace brings me back to reality and reminds me of what I've been waiting for so long in these last few weeks of hell.
Him. Us. Of course, now isn't the time, and maybe it's better that I have my helmet on because if I hadn't, I think I would have messed up.
But I don't forget that today is the 7th, that this was the last race, and that the promise was to stay apart only until now.
I don't forget that.
And I don't forget that the credit for my comeback and my improvement belongs to him alone. Because it was to catch up with him that I looked for every way to succeed. Inspired by him, by his perfection as a driver.
If it hadn't been for him surpassing me and being so absolutely perfect and so exceptional, I would never have tried to improve, I would never have sought help, I would never have recovered. I would have simply sunk into my depression. But it was to feel worthy of him, of being his partner both in life and on the team, to be able to surpass him again and to feel worthy of being by his side. Oscar inspired me in a thousand ways and I love him, and now I can be back with him and I don't want to know about being separated.
But stop, Lando, stop.
He's hurting now.
That bit of mystery you read to him earlier, and that's coming back now while you're together in the cooldown room, is this.
It's suffering.
He's hurting and he's trying to hide it and hold it back, so he can do what he has to do and not show his pain in public, because who knows what happens next?
He doesn't want anyone to know, but I see it now that I'm calmer and I've stopped acting crazy.
Oscar is hurting and he's hurting because of me, because I won a world championship that for a while was his. I'm the one who hurt him. I'm responsible for his pain.
You can't expect it to be like nothing for him, everything erased and over. That he'll come back with you now, that you'll hug, kiss and fuck. You can't expect something like that. Get it out of your head.
Be rational, Lando. At least try.
I look at him and see that he has no secrets from me, because he's different from before. He, too, has changed, and you don't block the change; it can only continue, once it's triggered. You can't stop it, you can't ignore it, you can't control it. You embrace the change.
And what if that change makes him hate me and want nothing more of me?
There's something wrong with Oscar, I know him well. I know perfectly well he has something. Starting with the fact that he didn't seek me out, he didn't do anything to spend a moment alone with me, he always clung to someone who prevented us from having a moment alone.
As the adrenaline subsides to make way for my brain to reason, I realize he's avoiding me, even though he then cheers with me on the podium and washes me down with champagne as if there were nothing strange between us. He's good at hiding things.
Anyway, maybe it's not that he's angry with me, but with himself. Or maybe he's so hurt that he can't think about us again as he should. He needs a moment, right?
It's normal. Even if it doesn't seem like it, Oscar is human and now he's more human than ever, thanks to me.
Look at yourself in the mirror and thank yourself, Lando, for this very human Oscar. You know exactly what he's going through, you know exactly what he needs.
He's hurting and he can't help it, nothing can stop this and you certainly can't expect him to come back to you just like that.
You're fine now because you won the World Cup, but he lost it. These things weigh heavily in one way or another.
Be an adult, Lando, and help him. Give him space as long as he needs it. Don't force him to keep the promise you expect him to keep. He'll keep it, but at least give him some time.
Give him that.
Don't think that this is the beginning of the end and that it's going exactly as you feared.
Don't panic and terrified.
Even if you need him and you keep telling every damn microphone you see that Oscar is incredible, that it's also thanks to him that you've managed to get back to the top and that you've improved, inspired by him. And above all, you keep telling anyone who broadcasts a video that you want to hug him and celebrate with him and that you care about him so much. You're almost telling you love him.
Stop, Lando. Stop and wait, it's his turn to feel bad. You won a world championship, celebrate it and wait for him to feel like coming back. He's surely seen the thousand interviews where you tell everyone he's an incredible driver and an exceptional person and that you want to hug him and celebrate with him.
As soon as he feels like it, he'll come back. He promised you.
Don't be afraid, Lando. Don't be afraid.
Don't ruin the best moment of your life with this creeping terror that grips your soul. Think about the incredible feat you've accomplished, not that perhaps this is the end for you and the boy you love.
Please, Oscar, don't leave me. Please.
*Oscar*
I greet him, congratulate him, smile and am truly happy for him; separating the driver that has just lost from his boyfriend on break, I can be happy. I know how much he's suffered and what he's been through throughout the year; it was an incredible personal comeback. He was convinced he couldn't win anything big, that he couldn't achieve important results because of his ADHD; he was depressed at one point. Instead he started fighting and working, he asked for help and accepted it, he spoke about it without fear and he slowly came back.
I'm happy with his journey and his own happiness, because I suppose you can't control certain things. You feel them, you have them, you are them.
I'm happy if he's happy; I can't lie to myself because the love I feel for him is genuine.
But the driver in me, whom I almost stifled this year, is now back, suddenly awakened to the most stinging defeat of his short career. I know I'm young and rationality tells me that I'll have many more worthy World Championships, and maybe one day I'll win, who knows.
But I can't be well now, it's impossible to expect that.
Every time I'm with Lando, I do what I have to, what's expected, what I know must be done.
We chat in front of the big screen in the cooldown room, nothing special thanks to Max in the middle and the cameras always behind.
I wash him down with champagne on the podium.
I listen to his sweet words about me showering me with compliments. My press officer, as usual, sends me all the videos where they talk about me—obviously important people on the circuit—she does it because it's her job. I usually ignore them, but I inevitably watch Lando's, as if unable to avoid them. He showers me with compliments in every one of them, says he wants to celebrate with me and hug me and gives me credit for his improvement because, inspired by me, he wanted to give it his all. And I see the light in his eyes as he says it, I see the joy, the hope and the sweetness as he talks about me, and the mortification. Because he's always full of emotions which he expresses so well, fearlessly.
I also see the need. The need for me to go to him and kiss him.
But I do everything, I do absolutely everything I have to and what's expected without arguing, without being a nuisance, without making faces. I do everything I have to.
Even the McLaren group photo with everyone and the writing on the panel 'Lando 2025 World Champion.'
I do absolutely everything, no holds barred.
I smile and I also hope that my eyes, every time they meet his, communicate enough to make him understand that I'm apologizing. That I'm truly happy for him, I am, he must believe me, but I can't take it anymore now.
I need time.
I need time I didn't think I needed.
Because evidently I was wrong.
Once change begins, you cannot stop it and command it at will. I tried to slow it down by distancing myself from Lando; maybe I slowed down the process a bit, but the truth is it never stopped.
I wanted to be human and normal and now I am, and it's not like I can stop whenever I want. Now, whether I like it or not, I am, and that's what it means to be human.
Feeling bad. Being human means suffering when bad things happen to you, when you fail, when something you fought for and hoped for ultimately goes badly. You suffer even if you rationally knew you couldn't do it, even if it was mathematically possible.
Telling myself I did everything I could to try, doesn't make me feel better. Maybe I would have been worse if I hadn't, but now that I'm away from Lando, I realize I'm suffering anyway, and that it's his fault. A small, selfish, irrational and stupid part of me is telling me that.
That's why, despite having done everything, absolutely everything I had to and what was expected, I can't grab him, drag him into some damn closet and stick my tongue in his mouth, even though that was what I desperately wanted until last night. I can't because, quite simply, I feel bad and part of the blame is on him.
He's the one who took the World Cup away from me, he's the one who inflicted this suffering on me. I know it's more my fault than his, because while he was recovering, I was losing myself, and I was even happy about it because I was happy with him and that happiness clouded my eyes.
But now the result of everything is this; that ifs and buts get you nowhere, I can only move on from here and pick up the pieces I have left in my hands.
I feel bad, I lost, it burns and I should get back with the person who reminds me of my failure and my pain. Could I do it? If I weren't human and normal, I could, but the point is, now I am. I am human. I am normal. I'm more and more so every day that passes.
What am I supposed to do? How can I keep my promise, as long as I'm like this?
Is this the pain of being human? Is this the suffering of normality?
Do I really want this? Before, when I was happy with him and nothing bad had happened yet, that was one thing. Back then it was easy to say I preferred it this way. But now that I’ve reached the first burning failure, do I still want to continue down that path?
But can I then stop? Can I stop being what I simply am now?
Changes can't be controlled, I thought yes, but the truth is that they’re simply embraced.
Where will this change take me now? To Lando or away from him?
One last look as they throw him into the air and I walk away silently, invisibly dodging the people who are here around, all pressed to celebrate him with shouts and splashes of champagne.
He's so happy, I've never seen him so happy and he deserves everything that's happening to him today.
But I can only walk away; I just can’t stay. I thought so, that I was rational enough to do it, to understand that I couldn't really win the world championship today anyway. But I underestimated my feelings about racing. I underestimated the feelings of the Oscar-winning driver, and in the end it burns.
Yes, it burns.
It burns like crazy.
I hope Lando understands and leaves me alone for a while, until I clear my head and am ready to start over with us, if I ever am.
But I'm sure he will. If there's anyone in the world who can understand me instantly without needing explanations, it's Lando.
I'm sorry, but I can't right now. I need time. Just a little. I don't know how much, but a little. Forgive me, I can't keep my promise yet.
I can't go back to you. I can't.