Chapter Text
Walking into the paddock, for the first race of the season, had excitement and anxiety bubbling in Oscar’s chest. Australia, his home race. Trying not to be in his head too much was an utter failure, all he could think about was what it’d be like to be on the podium. He didn’t think he wanted anything as badly as the win here.
Last year it hadn’t gone well. Home race curse, or whatever; he’s seen other drivers face a similar struggle.
All through Thursday, he’s anxious. It’s all ‘first race this,’ and ‘home race that.’ Honestly, even the silly PR videos he has to do with Lando don’t help much—he’s wound too tight in anxiety to relax. Lando notices; of course he does.
After being teammates so long, it shouldn’t surprise Oscar so much that Lando can tell—tell by the way his fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt, the way he can’t get comfortable on the stupid chair, the way he keeps running his hand through his hair. Even if he wasn’t doing those things, Oscar still thinks Lando would tell, simply because he wasn’t as engaged as usual.
It bored Oscar too, the game, which really was just a bunch of questions, which really meant they were just interviewing each other and McLaren was deeming it a game simply because they can. Each one of his answers starts with ‘uhm’ and more than once he has to make Lando repeat the question.
It’s never this bad. Never would he have figured his anxiety would get to this level; this time last year it wasn’t this bad when it was the same home race and same first race of the season.
“Oscar.” Lando stops him, the video wrapped and Oscar was quick to spring to his feet, but here Lando was—hand holding Oscar’s forearm. Keeping him from running off as he planned. “You… are you okay, mate?”
“Uh,” Oscar starts, head grappling to get out of itself and answer. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re all… jittery.” Lando muttered, releasing Oscar’s forearm but not letting him go far. As Oscar turned and walked, Lando followed, right at his side. Oscar couldn’t decide if Lando’s attention and subtle persistence right now was nice or suffocating. After being his teammate so long, Lando’s presence was always more welcome than not, always something Oscar could rely on. Which could never be bad.
Oscar thought he wasn’t that jittery, but for him, admittedly yes, he was jittery. Saying as much probably wasn’t his best defense, but his brain couldn’t scramble anything else up to give to Lando.
“I’m not jittery.” The rebuttal was weak, and if Lando was a meaner person he’d be scoffing at it right now. But he wasn’t. Maybe it’d be better if he was, Oscar would be out of this conversation faster. Wouldn’t feel as bad, even if he wasn’t sure why he was feeling bad. All he was doing was talking to Lando. “Just had two coffees.”
“I thought you didn’t like coffee?” Lando asked, and Oscar’s lips curled in on themselves. Lando was completely right, Oscar recalls even saying in an interview he didn’t drink it much. Before he could ask how or why Lando knew that, Lando was stopped by one of the PR people.
Oscar, taking the opportunity, ducked his head to the side and hurried away from both of them. To the door, which brought the sweet freedom of fresh air. Oscar wasn’t sure when Lando got to know so much about him, right under Oscar’s nose too.
Maybe he really was that attentive to detail. Maybe he was just that good a person, he spends so much time with Lando anyway, if he was paying attention he was bound to pick up on things. Like Oscar politely turning down coffee when the team made or went out for some. He never paid attention to what Lando told them.
The thought made Oscar feel really guilty, because he didn’t know Lando on that level. Clearly not on the same level he knew Oscar. It’s pretty shitty in the end, isn’t it? After this weekend—once all this stress left his body—Oscar made a mental note to be more aware of Lando. And his mannerisms. And all those random things. So things were more even. It was still a selfish act—because Oscar was doing it so he wouldn’t feel bad. What a joke.
In his motorhome, he stilled. He didn’t quite recall walking here—he’d gone on autopilot. At least he hadn’t been thinking about the race, at least the worry this time was over something else. But was it really good if he was worrying over Lando? Oscar didn’t have a clue. He couldn’t get his brain sorted.
Sighing, he collapsed into the chair pushed against the wall. It wasn’t that comfy—it had clothes piling up on it, making it lumpy and uneven—and it creaked under his sudden weight. They’ve been here a day, and he already needed to tidy up this room. Lucky him.
Oscar stared at the wall opposite of him. He was pretty sure he could sit here about ten minutes, then he had a meeting to get to. Suffer through Zak Brown for half an hour—thanks to media after that made sure Zak had to keep it short, so it was a win lose. Only a half hour, but immediately after more media. He’d like to say he didn’t know which one he was dreading more, but the answer was the meeting.
The team hadn’t been helping, laying it on thick about his hime race. Encouraging him to post about it. Zak certainly was pushing the agenda, if Oscar had to guess it was only for the story and attention it would bring to the team. Last year, he did the same thing with Lando and Silverstone. He did it to Oscar last year too. It would happen to Lando again this year, just like it was happening to him. Oscar hated how Zak loved a story.
If there was anything Zak liked more than either of them winning a race, it was money. Posts meant ads, reasons to put in sponsors, attention on the team; and all of that amounted to money in the end. Oscar’s eyes refocused, forcing him away from his thoughts. He’d rather be sitting and stewing in anxiety than think about Zak Brown anyways.
-
Friday comes free practice. It’s better than yesterday, more clearing for Oscar’s head to be behind the wheel. When he’s not in free practice though, he’s sitting around waiting for the second one, and after that, him and Lando are stuck in meetings until the end of the day.
Oscar focused as much as he could, he made sure to pay attention when they starting talking about ideas for strategies, the ones that would be more finalized tomorrow but Oscar was happy to get a few general ideas. When they started on about the weather—expected to be sunny and maybe a bit of wind, but low and otherwise fine—Oscar started spacing out a bit. They just kept going on about clouds.
When they finally brought the weather talk to full circle—how it would affect track temperatures and how that would affect tires, Oscar thought he’d pay attention. But the door to disassociation had been opened and closing it was such a bitch—he was fighting to listen to what they had to say.
His brain seemed more inclined to think about how Lando was twirling a pen between his fingers or the little cloud graphics on the screen. Every time he glanced out the window he had to physically pull himself back into the presentation. It was nice out, he would much rather be out there than in here. Where it was sunny.
Maybe he’d go on a walk later. Enjoy the sun as it set, maybe he’d get his head back together. God, it would help if he’d be able to do it now, and pay attention to this meeting. In his defense, on again they went about the clouds and the chance of rain, which was so low it was comical. Even when the chances were so slim. Oscar really, really wanted to get out of this stuffy conference room.
It’s late when they finally get out of the conference room. Oscar’s stomach had been growling a bit, and it was quite embarrassing when Lando gave him a side eye. It didn’t seem like that many people noticed though, and Oscar really hoped they hadn’t.
More than excited to get back to the hotel and chow down on his trainer approved and prepackaged meal, he was quick to get his things together. Briefly he wonders if he just should’ve stayed with his family, which he has a few times since being here. The night before the race, he figured he’d wanted the solitude of a hotel. As Sunday draws nearer, he thinks he was right.
“Osc!” Oscar stopped, and was quite upset about it. Making sure he wasn’t making a face—in his defense he was starving—he turned to greet Lando. He’d known by the voice. He guessed he might’ve been able to tell by his footsteps, his gait. Sometimes he does, most times Lando announces himself. “Wanna grab a bite together?”
Before he can help it, as Lando stops in front of him, he tilts his head. Lando had definitely heard his stomach growling, but he also knew Oscar had a meal waiting for him, just as Lando did himself. Why would he offer? It’d all be out of the way, Oscar supposed. But it’d also be nice to not be alone with his head.
“Maybe somewhere you like?” Lando suggested, sounding oddly hopeful. “Y’know, your home town after all. What’s your favorite place? As long as it’s not seafood.”
“Uh, I…” As he trailed off, he awkwardly met Lando’s eyes. Oscar didn’t even know if he had a favorite place to eat here. He knew good places sure, he’s eaten and enjoyed, but his favorite? It strikes his chest to think he hasn’t spent enough time here to have decided on the best restaurant, to say firmly one place was his favorite. As Oscar’s brain comes to a screeching halt, he watches Lando’s face slowly fall.
“If you don’t want to it’s fine. Really, you can say so.” It sounded so true. Like Lando didn’t mind if Oscar declined, but the look in his eyes told Oscar a very different story. Lando was probably just being polite. Because Oscar hasn’t said anything—fuck. He hasn’t said anything. Right.
“No, we can. Sorry…” he wasn’t sure why he was apologizing, but before Lando could comment on it—which Oscar was almost sure was coming next when he opened his mouth—Oscar figured he could give Lando the partial truth. “I just was trying to think about places around here. It’s been a while.”
“Weren’t you here over break?”
“Well—yeah, but we mostly stayed in. When we went out I never really picked—,” Oscar decided it was just time to shut up. That would benefit them both, he thought. “But yeah. We can go somewhere.”
“Great!” Lando cheered. His smile came right back to his face, big as ever. “Let me just go grab my stuff. Wait here.” Turning, Lando ran off, and Oscar dutifully didn’t leave the spot he stood.
He did, however, pull out his phone and google ‘places to eat near me’. He didn’t pick the top rated, he didn’t actually want it to be too fancy. He wasn’t in the mood for all of that, anyways. And Lando wasn’t in the mood for seafood, not that Lando ever would be. He settled on a burger joint, not any chain, but rather one he recognized from one of Hattie’s various and descriptive stories. It didn’t seem that healthy, but Oscar figured instead of a walk he could do a run and work out a bit extra tomorrow, too.
Lando comes back, giddy as ever, backpack slung on his shoulder. He mutters something about stopping at the hotel, but he’s already tugging Oscar out the door. They stop at the hotel, and then Lando drives to the burger place with Oscar’s direction. He’s pretty sure Lando isn’t comfortable in a car unless he himself is behind the wheel, but Lando hasn’t confirmed that theory of Oscar’s. Oscar wouldn’t be surprised, most of the drivers on the grid are like that.
For a Friday, the place isn’t too crowded. They sit in a booth, the waiter recognizes them but was polite about it, which Oscar desperately needed. As they waited for their food they fell into a slight silence, Lando twisting his bracelets around his wrist.
Oscar’s content with the silence, even if Lando’s body language says he isn’t. If Lando wants to remedy it, he will, Oscar’s sure of that much. It takes a few minutes—Oscar spends that time staring out the window, watching people pass but mostly stuck up in his thoughts—before Lando does.
“Are you sure? That you’re ok?” Lando asks, and Oscar’s eyes snap from the window to Lando’s. His eyes are wide, concerned, but Oscar nods. Lando won’t push, Oscar knows this, because serious conversations like this make his skin crawl. Oscar doesn’t give him anything more, either. “Ok,” he relents.
Then he goes on meaningless chatter, which Oscar is more than happy to listen to and focus on rather than his own thoughts. It’s quite captivating, surprisingly, all of what Lando says. Maybe it’s the way he says it, or the fact it’s Lando. He doesn’t know.
When their food arrives, Lando’s beaming, and Oscar can’t help but echo a smile of his own, because he finally had food.
“Osc! You have to take a photo of me!” Lando says, already pulling out his phone. He opens the camera and shoves it in Oscar’s hands, and he’s caught off guard by it all.
“What? Right now? Can’t we eat?”
“It’ll be quick!” Lando urges, grinning. Oscar holds up the phone, taking a few pictures of Lando, before, during, and after the moment he actually poses for it, which results in a few silly photos. When Oscar returns the phone, he immediately digs into his burger, and looks up to find Lando taking a photo of him this time.
“What are you doing?” Oscar asks, uncaring that it’s through a full mouth. Lando just grins, looking down at his phone—presumably at the photo he just took of Oscar. It couldn’t possibly be a good photo.
“For the story.”
“Lando—,”
“Hm. I’ll think about not posting it, but no promises. Just enjoy your burger, Osc.” Lando replies, setting his phone down and picking up his own burger. Oscar does as he says, because it’s a good burger and he’s in good company. The thought of the photo will linger in the back of his head, but he’ll forget about it while they eat, while Lando talks pure nonsense and they both laugh a bit too much.
-
Saturday brings true nerves. Oscar thought his anxiety leading up to this was bad, but this was worse. He really was jittery. FP3 doesn’t make him feel good, not because he does bad, but just because once he’s out of the car it means next time he gets in it’s qualifying. And after that, it’ll be the race. Which he’s not ready for.
After free practice, he isn’t sure it’s a good thing he’s not busy. Deciding to go over data only makes him more worried and he thinks less about the actual data. At this rate he’s going to give himself a headache.
Eventually, Oscar does drop his head in his hands, pain blooming at the base of his skull. He wonders what could be happening to him. He’s never been this anxious or stressed over a race. None of them have caused this stress.
Before he knows it there’s a hand on his shoulder, water set in front of him, and then Lando’s sitting with him. Oscar grabs the water, drinks about half of it, and sets it down.
“I had a lot of fun last night. You really should show me around sometime.” Lando starts immediately, diverting Oscar’s attention. Oscar isn’t sure if it’s on purpose or not—he has a sneaking suspicion it is, and Oscar is grateful—and Lando’s just. Lando. All smiles, hand gestures, animatedly recalling yesterday evening like Oscar hadn’t even been there. Oscar thinks this should be annoying him, because he was there. But excitement radiates off Lando in waves and it’s contagious, so Oscar couldn’t care. “I have also decided the photo will be posted, but you’ll never know when.”
“I’ll have to be on the lookout.” Oscar replies, a small smile easing onto his face, perfectly paying attention to Lando. Oscar wished they could spend the rest of the day like this, just chatting about nothing F1 related. Just friends.
“Oh no, you’ll have to watch all my stories.” Oscar couldn’t help but chuckle at Lando’s remark, shaking his head a bit, as if he was brushing the whole thing off. “Torture, I know. But maybe it’ll be entertaining?”
“Mm. I doubt it.”
“I’ll have to make it entertaining, somehow. Can’t disappoint Oscar Piastri.” Lando returned and Oscar just laughed along with him. Despite amusement, Oscar didn’t really have anything to say to it, but Lando seemed to make it his mission to not let them fall into silence. “So. What sport would you play if you were athletic?”
“Uh. What.” Oscar mumbled, eyes going wide and confused. Had Lando really just asked him that? They were both F1 drivers. But Lando simply gave him an expectant look, so after a moment of blubbering nothing but random noise, Oscar got something out of his mouth. “You mean besides… F1? I guess… uhm… cricket. Surfing, maybe? Something that keeps me more around here.”
“Hm. Interesting. I’d probably do golf.” With Lando’s reply he surely nodded, smiling a bit stupidly. Random, very random, but if it all made Lando that smiley, Oscar was fine to go along with it.
“Drink some more water?”
Though it was a question, Oscar didn’t reply, taking the water and drinking more of it. Just like before it helped, he could feel the cold down his throat, his head that much better. Maybe he was imagining it, the placebo effect, but doesn’t care because it’s working.
“You ready for qualifying?” Oscar asks before he can stop himself, mind steering right back to the race. Lando shrugs, looking rather disinterested at the topic, but Oscar’s curious.
“As I’ll ever be. I don’t want to talk about qualifying. Or the race.”
“No?” Oscar asks, and Lando shakes his head in conformation. “Well what do you want to talk about? Do tell.”
“Why’s that burger place your favorite?” Lando asked, abruptly and firmly. It surprises Oscar, the sureness behind Lando. How much it seems he genuinely wants the answer. “I want to hear the story.”
The story. Oscar wished he had a story to tell. Instead of speaking immediately, he chuckled awkwardly a moment, shifting in his seat. He was going to look like a fool, surely, worst of all going to disappoint Lando. He’d avoided telling him yesterday, but he’d figured the truth would be better now than changing the subject.
“Uh, sorry, Lando. I don’t—yesterday. You asked me for my favorite place. I don’t have any specific favorite place to eat… around here.” Oscar bumbled, eyes refusing to meet Lando’s. God, it was sad. It was stupid. It was embarrassing. All of which Oscar felt could be used to describe him, too.
When there was silence, Oscar looked up. Lando’s face was scrunched, perplexed in a manner. Beyond reason, Oscar watched his lips move, pulling to one side then relaxing, thinning then being chewed on.
“Then why’d you take us there?” Instead of asking why he didn’t have a favorite place, Oscar wondered why he didn’t, he phrased it in a way that went around it. Not sure if he’d done it on purpose or if it was truly the first thing to come to Lando’s mind, Oscar answered honestly.
“I googled places to eat near me. It had good reviews. Hattie mentioned liking their food.” Oscar muttered, eyes back down, focusing on the table. He ran his nail over the wood—god, they needed to be trimmed—but it didn’t catch on anything. A part of him wishes it had, so he’d have something to focus on instead.
“That’s nice.” The reply confused Oscar, it had him looking up curiously. He didn’t try to hide his confusion, which he probably should’ve, considering Lando looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I just mean—you didn’t pick the first one. You picked the one your sister said good things about.”
“I suppose. I wish I had a favorite place though. So I could’ve really shared something with you.” The quiet admittance settled between the two of them, honest and open. But it made Oscar swallow hard, fighting his emotions to go back down, to not start spilling his sob story to Lando—who didn’t need to hear it and probably didn’t want to.
“You still shared something with me. That burger place is our burger place now.” Lando deemed without uncertainty, smiling so fully it was contagious. That was true about any smile Lando wore, Oscar mused, as he returned his own, much smaller smile.
Oscar’s always liked how Lando was able to see the bright side of things. To look at the better, rather than focus on the worst. Oscar certainly wasn’t like that, but it was uplifting to have someone who was. Who turned this mess—Oscar’s mess—into something fond, something that could be looked back on without displeasure. Oscar also knows it’s not easy for Lando, and that Lando isn’t always like this—not when it comes to himself, it’s only for others most of the time. Oscar hopes Lando has someone who does it for him, too.
“Our burger place?”
“Yep. Our spot in Melbourne. Ours.” Lando reaffirmed, and Oscar’s smile surely had to look as stupid as it felt. He’s never had a ‘spot’ before, as cheesy as it is, but Oscar was very happy about it. Ecstatic, even. He shook his head, amused mostly at himself.
“That’s—uhm. I’d like that.” Oscar murmured and Lando was nodding.
“Osc, take a photo. Of us both, you’ve got the longer arms.” Lando muttered, handing his phone over, just like he had last evening. Oscar chuckled but took the photo, smiling wide for the camera.
“For the story?” Oscar asked as he handed the phone back, echoing Lando’s words from last night, and Lando was still grinning as he took it.
“Something like that.”
-
Qualifying felt like a mess, even though it really wasn’t. Oscar’s anxiety was bleeding out of him the whole drive—the way his laps always started with slower times, the way he held off on breaking at the last moment and rather a little before, the way he couldn’t focus. Somehow, he only got one lecture over the radio, because during each session even if his first flying lap weren’t always that quick, he’d pick it up on the next.
It might not be obvious to everyone, but it was obvious to him. Anxiety melted into desperation—he’d barely made it to Q3, at least it felt that way even if he ended Q2 in p7–and as Q3 started, he didn’t allow himself an anxiety ridden lap, he pushed and pushed and pushed. Until he wasn’t sure if they were even good, nice laps, he was just trying to go.
Go he did, at the end of Q3 he was on pole. With absolutely no idea how he’d done it. It came as no surprise George was on the front row with him, George really had been flying. Oscar wasn’t sure how he beat it. Lando and Max filled out the second row, all in all a good day for McLaren, he supposed.
As he got out of the car, he went through the short pole interview and after he couldn’t remember what he’d said. Blacking out an interview was surely a new thing for him, and that list of new things was full of everything that has happened this weekend only; his unreasonable and over heightened anxiety, his spaciness getting worse each day.
When they finally got out of the paddock for the day, Lando caught up to him. Knocking his shoulder to Oscar’s with a smile, not verbally greeting him but this was almost just as usual. Oscar returned the smile.
“Good day, huh? I dunno what you were so worried about, Osc.” Lando said, slipping his phone in his pocket and adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. “I’d say we did pretty good.”
“We did.” Oscar agreed, glancing to Lando. Their arms brushed as they walked, because Lando didn’t move away after bumping their shoulders, but Oscar made no move away either. It was comfortable, somehow, walking so close to Lando. Normally Oscar would be very uncomfortable walking so close to somebody, but he chose to ignore that.
“I would say we could go for celebratory burger, but we have a race tomorrow.” Lando sighed exasperatedly, disappointment leeching from him, enough to amuse Oscar a tad. “Hm. After we get a 1-2 tomorrow, we’ll just have to get the burger. After the race.”
“After the race.” Oscar agreed, giddy at the thought of winning, at the thought of Lando next to him on the podium, at the thought of getting another burger with Lando even when their trainers would certainly be angry with them. Lando was right though, and Oscar would defend it, a 1-2 would be deserving of a burger.
“Then celebrations, of course. And! Before you say you don’t like the parties and all, it’s your home race, you have to go.” Lando said pointedly, eyes slightly narrowed in a playful manner. Oscar chuckled softly, Lando truly did know him well.
“What? Are you gonna make me go?”
“Yes. I’ll drag you if I have to. Don’t underestimate me, Piastri.” Lando would drag him, literally, if he had to. Oscar was sure. From his hotel room to some club that Oscar would probably hate. Though, if Lando stays by his side, it might not be too terrible. It might be fun, dare he say. But he wouldn’t admit it to Lando.
“You’ll have to drag me.”
“I’ll take pleasure in doing so, then.” Lando responded firmly, smile stuck on his face and challenging, but Oscar didn’t challenge it. He nodded, relenting to Lando, looking at his feet as they walked. Oscar wouldn’t mind being dragged, he supposed, if Lando was the one doing it. Lando could make it seem like a good idea, somehow, even if he knows it isn’t, he’s convincible.
-
Having missed out on the opportunity the past few nights—one laziness and one busy with Lando—Oscar decides to take his walk; not a run, not a jog. Just a relaxing walk.
Oscar walks to the small beach, holds his shoes in his hands. Uncaring about the sand on his feet, or the water lapping at them. He likes the way he sinks a bit in the sand with every step. He likes the foam on the water. He likes the smell of the bay. He likes the sounds of the water, as it softly crashes and rolls.
A part of him wishes he wasn’t on the beach to the bay, but that of the actual ocean. Where the waves would be bigger and louder, and the salt smell would go so far up his nose it would cloud his brain. Even if it doesn’t quite do it here, right now his head is blissfully empty.
When he steps back from the water, he sits in the sand facing the horizon. From where he sat, the sun was more so setting over the city than the water. It didn’t matter though, the water was glittering just the same, the breeze was picking up a bit as the sun went under.
Far too long Oscar sat there, toes digging into the sand, breeze pushing his hair, watching the water as the sky behind it kept growing darker and darker. For all the time he was there, he ignored his phone, no matter how much it buzzed in his pocket. Content to sit with his knees bent and arms draped over them.
A part of him wants to swim. He won’t; he doesn’t have swimming trunks, doesn’t have a towel, not to mention it just isn’t safe to swim after dark. If he was more carefree, he’d been in the water a long time ago. If Lando was here, and he wanted to swim, he would be. Oscar just wasn’t the same kind of person, though.
When he got in his head again—thinking about Lando leading to the race—the water wasn’t doing its job anymore. His head wasn’t empty anymore, but he was thankful he got the small reprieve. He got up, glanced at his phone to see a variety of notifications. Before getting up, he clicked on the one notification that drew his eye.
Lando posted to his story. Oscar clicked through it, finding pictures of himself on there, and it uncomfortably made his chest warm. The photos from the burger place were there, but not the one Lando had taken earlier. Oscar didn’t question it, he just liked the story.
Rather a long reprieve, then, if it had been an hour. Oscar doubted there was anything better than losing time while watching the water. Nothing more relaxing, at least. He got of the sand, brushed his feet off and put his shoes back on even if uncomfortable, and he dusted off his shorts. If he lived here, he’d probably come watch the water everyday. But he doesn’t, and it was fine, his life was still good. This was still his home, even if sometimes—most of the time—it didn’t quite feel like it.
-
7:32. The alarm he set last night was for eight, on the dot, and he woke up at 7:32. Oscar rolled over a few times, but for the life of him, he couldn’t fall back asleep.
Anxiety was pitted in his stomach, worse than it’d been all weekend somehow, so deep and strong as if woven into his gut. Oscar did not like it. Wide awake and unable to settle, the worry rattling around inside of him. Something just felt so wrong.
Unable to place it, Oscar ignored it. He turned off his alarm and got up early, giving way to the anxiety rather than fighting it and trying to sleep some more. A half an hour difference would be fine, he was still pretty well rested. Even if in the moment of dragging himself out of bed hadn’t felt like that, it was true—even if he was more so convincing himself if anything.
After he brushed his teeth, he leaned against the counter and just paused. Breathing, eyes closed, trying to relax. No matter how many deep breaths—a technique he’d read about somewhere he couldn’t recall but was somewhat sure of—the bundle of nerves kept rolling around in his stomach. Flooding through his system like waves crashing hard, too big and strong to feel safe.
With the slight extra time, he went on a run. His mind cleared, for a moment, even if the anxiety didn’t quite settle, it was ignorable while he was running. Naturally, if it was ignorable, he was overreacting. Throughout the morning, he pushed it aside, because he had to be overreacting.
-
Arriving at the paddock was overwhelming, more so than usual. Maybe because it’s been so long, maybe because he already felt overwhelmed by the anxiety gnawing at him as if he was a chew toy. Throughout the day he bit at the inside of his cheek, chewing it to bits.
Everything passed by in a blur. Until he was listening to the national anthem before the race, in his race suit. It felt like he was aware, when everything else hadn’t been. Everything else had been autopilot. It was worrying how he had been so out of it, but what was a lot more worrying was the pit in his stomach.
It was bordering on nausea. Which was definitely not normal and not okay, and was freaking him out a bit. Something was wrong. Terribly. Once the anthem is over, Oscar thinks his ears might be ringing, well, they have to be because what else could that high pitched ringing be?
He felt out of his head as he walked back to his car. As if he was outside looking in. More focused on his heart, punching angrily against his ribs, lungs refusing to breathe in enough, the pit in his stomach heavy and clutching him tight; dragging him down.
When a hand is place on his shoulder, his head snaps to the source. Lando. Once they meet eyes, Lando’s go slightly wide. Oscar coughs a bit—which is really him choking on what might be a sob, he isn’t sure but god if he isn’t fighting it. He watches Lando’s face fall.
“Osc?” Lando’s voice pushes through the ringing, and his brain desperately clings to it like a lifeline. Oscar was either dizzy or his eyes are watering—either way Lando is growing blurry. Oscar really, really wished he wasn’t. “Osc. Hey. Stop walking a minute.”
Oscar stops, as told. Choosing to not say anything, because he already is breathing too quickly and talking will only worsen it, he tries to meet Lando’s eyes. His hands might be shaking, or twitching, or something of the like—the only thing Oscar could confidently say was that they weren’t held still at his sides.
“Take a deep breath with me. Okay?” Oscar tried, and Oscar failed. It was shaky and sharp and pitiful if anything. He tried again, and it wasn’t much better. Lando was too blurry, and when Oscar wiped at his eyes he wasn’t happy to find it helped. “Hey, Osc. I have a really important question okay?” Oscar paused, confused, breathing shakily.
“You… what?” It came out mumbled and weak and shaky. He managed to get his eyes focused on Lando, the best he could.
“Seriously. Are my teeth yellow?” Lando asked, way too seriously. A laugh coughed its way from Oscar’s lungs, wet and stupid sounding. Lando grinned, baring his teeth, leaning closer for Oscar so he could focus on them. Oscar shook his head.
“No, Lan—they’re not… not yellow.” Oscar mumbled, through shallow breaths, trying to speak clearly between them. Lando’s grin only grew.
“Great! And I don’t have food in them?”
Oscar looked again, and shook his head again. “No—no food.”
“Good. I was worried. I think Zak had some food stuck in his teeth earlier. It was big and green and gosh, Osc, it was so gross.” Lando gestured vaguely over his shoulder, somewhere in the direction Zak would be. It made Oscar chuckle again.
Oscar wasn’t sure what Lando was going on about, but it was funny and Oscar was happy to pay his attention to it. Despite Lando’s smile though, he didn’t seem at ease, not like he would normally be. He still had that slight pinch in his brow and skepticism in his eye that couldn’t be masked with the grin.
“Let’s try another deep breath, okay?” Lando asked, hand slightly firming more on Oscar’s shoulder. As Lando inhaled deeply, Oscar tried to do the same, and it went much better than last time. It wasn’t great, but it was still so much better. “I’m right here, with you Osc, c’mon, ok. A few more deep breaths.”
Oscar followed Lando’s breathing for what had to be a minute. The feeling in his gut wasn’t gone, but he at least wasn’t panicking as much. He felt exhausted, somehow, and if they weren’t surrounded by people he’d probably give up on personal space and collapse onto Lando. That would be embarrassing, though, so thankfully he didn’t.
“Thank you.” Oscar mumbled after a moment, and Lando was gently guiding him towards the car again. Considering all the other drivers had already made it over to theirs—and Oscar was pretty sure some people on their team were yelling for them—he followed alongside Lando.
“Can you drive? Are you ok?” Lando asked gently. Far too so to not display his utter concern, to show just how much Oscar had worried him. Oscar wasn’t even entirely sure what just happened, in honesty. But he nodded anyways to Lando’s question. “What happened.”
“Just…” Oscar started, and stopped. They stopped at Oscar’s car. The team tried to come over, to direct them, and Oscar would’ve gone but Lando shooed them away quickly. “Something feels wrong.”
“You’ve got to give me more, Osc. Please.” The quiet desperation in Lando’s voice scared Oscar. Oscar must really be scaring him then, like some kind of fucked up never ending cycle. Where they kept scaring each other. Maybe.
“It feels wrong. Something… is going to happen. Something is wrong.” Oscar tried, but it didn’t make sense. He knew it didn’t, and if he didn’t Lando’s face would’ve told him everything he needed to know. Painted with confusion and concern alike, and Oscar didn’t want to see that expression on Lando. “There’s… I’m just… there’s a pit in my stomach. That something is going to go wrong.”
“Do you believe in that stuff? Intuition?” Lando asked, slightly tilting his head. Oscar hadn’t thought of that, of course he’s heard stories, but it’s never happened to him. He would have to experience it to believe it, and he hasn’t.
“I dunno. Do you?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter right now. Do you or don’t you?”
“I guess not.” Oscar mumbled, weak. Not sure at all, but Lando went with it. He nodded firmly, patted Oscar’s shoulder. The slight pause before a reply made Oscar think maybe Lando did, but Oscar wasn’t going to bring it up right now.
“Then you’ll be fine.” Lando reassured, lingering a moment before he walked off to his own car. Oscar didn’t quite feel right, but if Lando said he’d be fine, he’d be fine. Inclined to trust him, for whatever reason. He seemed to know how to help Oscar after all, so Oscar can trust him here. Now.
-
The formation lap goes fine. That somehow settles Oscar nerves and heightens them all the same. The pit in his stomach hasn’t left, that intense feeling. But there was nothing to do about it. Plus, Oscar put his trust in Lando, he believed Lando, he would be fine.
When the lights went out Oscar stopped thinking about it, he focused on the start. Despite a good attempt from the mercedes driver, he kept position in front of George. He started finding the pace of the race, somehow managing to keep George behind him.
In lap three, he’s told George had a lock up, and Lando got past. Which was good, it kept George off Oscar’s tail a few moments, but that also meant he’d be on Lando’s. Very fast people in very fast cars were behind him, but he figured while they fought it out he’d have time to build a gap. Well, hopefully. Oscar was very much hoping for that.
It’s nice in front. Oscar will admit. With each lap the pit in his stomach isn’t as weighing. It’s almost relaxing, in a sense. Because George and Lando are still at it, Max looming behind them, all to probably be some sort of problem soon. Until then, Oscar was content.
Oscar took a deep breath, reassuring himself all was well. Lando said all was well, he’d be fine. The amount of times he was repeating that made it a mantra in his hand. Hearing it in Lando’s voice, but that was neither here nor there. He focuses on driving, on gaining a gap without pushing too much, on limiting any error.
“Oscar, box box, slow down, there is a red flag.” Tom’s voice cut’s through the radio. Oscar’s stomach drops to what has to be its lowest. He slows, finishing out the lap at reduced speed.
“Uh, what happened?” Oscar asks back, worry overriding all other instinct. He was right. Something bad happened. Hopefully it was just a minor crash, or something of the like. Probably not that bad. They probably only need time to get a car out of the way. At least, that’s what Oscar’s telling himself while Tom takes a very long time to reply. A terrible, frightening, nauseating time to reply.
“A crash at turn six.”
That was so little information. It was unnerving. But, it was probably one of the more likely places to crash on the circuit. Oscar pulls into the pit lane, surprised not to see other cars immediately behind him. Where was Lando and George and Max? They weren’t that far behind him. Getting out, Oscar watches as the next car to come in is Max’s.
Which answered a lot of questions and none at all. Oscar was torn, but once Max was out of his car, he was going over. Max took off his helmet, and he looked… shaken. Eyes wide, he pulled off the balaclava, and he seemed kind of shocked when he turned to Oscar.
Oscar tugged his helmet off, quickly and harshly.
“Max! Max. What happened?” Oscar asked, watching Max pale. It looked like he winced, even. “Where’s Lando and George?”
“Uh,” other cars started coming in, slower. If it was Lando and George, Oscar had to be the only one not to see it. “I barely saw the crash. I rounded the corner and… it was a mess.”
That wasn’t helpful. At all. But the far off look he wore made Oscar want to vomit. He looked scared, he looked concerned. Worst of all it wasn’t easy to rattle Max. Oscar could hear his heartbeat, just like earlier. Luckily he kept his breath and his ears didn’t ring, but fuck, his heart was hammering.
“Are they ok?”
“I—mate, I don’t know.” Max muttered, before walking off with his head low. Oscar didn’t know what to do. Before moving from where he stood, he heard an uproar of cheering. One of the big screens showed George, up and out of his car. Wobbly. Oscar couldn’t see Lando’s car, not from the angle and zoom.
Oscar eyes locked onto the McLaren pit wall. Feet moving long before his brain was, Oscar was running over to the stand. The screen wasn’t showing Lando’s car at all, not while it was still focused on George. As he approached the pit wall, he halted so abruptly he nearly fell.
“Lando? Lando?” Zak’s voice echoed, increasingly worried. Not even his race engineer, but Zak. “Lando, please respond to the radio.”
“His radio might be busted, I mean, you saw—,” Andrea started but didn’t finish, gestured uselessly at nothing. Tom muttered something about a good point, but Zak kept trying, over and over. Seemingly getting no response.
“What happened?” Oscar blurted, feeling wildly left out. Now, of all times, he wishes he hadn’t been in first. He wishes he could’ve seen the car. To judge just how bad it had been. To know for himself.
“Oscar, go to the garage.” Andrea murmured, and when Oscar went to speak again, he repeated himself. Oscar swore, and was pretty sure Andrea heard, but turned on his heel.
Passing through the parked cars, Oscar saw Charles. So, he caught up with him, to get answers from someone. Oscar stopped Charles by lightly grabbing his forearm.
“Ah, Oscar, what—you scared me.” Charles mumbled, tone awfully quiet and discouraged. Oscar chest was clawing itself apart, he needed answers, needed to hear that Lando was ok. He faintly registered the announcers saying something about a MedEvac. Oscar and Charles both slightly stilled at that.
“Please—what happened? I don’t—is Lando ok?” Charles sighed, and that was making Oscar panic more. “Charles, did you see anything? Please.”
“Uhm. When I went by, the front end of Lando’s car was on one side of the track and the back half on the other. I don’t know how it split, but it looked like George hit the back half.” Charles explained, eyes downcast and tone low. “I don’t know if Lando is ok.”
Oscar’s heart sank. Charles gave him a pat in the arm, a sad and painful one, before turning away, walking to his garage. After a moment of standing, in the way and frozen, Oscar made after his own garage. Everyone inside looked terrified. Oscar didn’t know what to do.
Eyes turned to him as he entered, even if he didn’t want them to. Rather, Oscar wanted to go throw up and then cry. Lando hadn’t been answering his radio. The front half of Lando’s car had, what, torn off? George hit Lando’s car, presumably after it broke. Which part of the car? If it was right by the front… where at least the front wing and maybe more was gone, leaving what between George’s car and Lando? Oscar’s heart was going so fast he thinks it might just stop.
The screen in the garage zooms out in the scene. The ambulance is there. The medics are there. The front half of Lando’s car is on the left side of the track. The back half in the right, with George’s car. George is being ushered away. Medics are surrounding the back half of Lando’s car.
“What the fuck happened…” he asked, barely a whisper, not even to anyone in particular. But there were people nearby, in the garage. They heard.
“He locked up.” Someone from the pit crew mumbled, walking up beside Oscar as to not speak loudly. “Spun and the front half hit the barrier. Tires and wing went off. Car spun back onto track, backwards, and George… was right behind him. Hit him nearly straight on.”
“He…” Oscar didn’t know what he was trying to say, but he didn’t finish the sentence. Simply staring at the screen, eyes wide and watering. “Did it look… do you think…” Oscar couldn’t finish either of the sentences, but he still wanted answers.
“He’s… definitely hurt. But with all the safety precautions in the cars nowadays, he has a good chance.” The pit crew member said, and then turned to Oscar. With this desperate look. “Right?”
Oscar’s gut was right. Something bad—no, absolutely terrible had happened. It was insane and Oscar was on the verge of tears, and this member of the pit crew was looking to him for answers when he didn’t have anything. He had jack shit. Oscar’s gut was right, and it was lurching.
Turning on his heel, he pushed past a few people to get to a bin in the corner of the room. Falling to his knees and puking. It had to be a sight. Before he could pick his head up or wipe his chin there were hands on his back.
Immediately, he didn’t look to the person behind him, comforting him. He glanced to the pit crew person, who only looked more alarmed. Silence fell over the garage—probably when he was puking, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not the people in here, not the race, not the crash, not anything. The only thing he wanted was for Lando to be okay.
Sitting back on his knees, more comfortably, he looked back over his shoulder. Of course it was his mom behind him, he should’ve figured. Really. She was rubbing his shoulder, trying to comfort him. But not even for Oscar could she hide the unease on her face—the discomforted smile, the awkward crease in her eye that tried to mask her own worry.
Oscar couldn’t look at it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he ignored the way they burned and brimmed with tears, he tilted his head back against his mom’s hip. Her hand carded through his hair, gently brushing it aside, then cupping his cheek. Oscar wants to sob. He wants to sob, and scream, and yell. If Lando’s ok, it’ll be a miracle.
She crouched down, and Oscar reluctantly opened his eyes. Fighting the urge to sniffle, though he felt his lips twitching, he met her eyes. If Oscar’s heart was shattering, her eyes reflected it.
“Hey, Oscar, baby. I’ve got you, ok?” She murmured, and all Oscar could do was nod. Nod over and over again until she pulled him into a hug, and he hid his face in her shoulder. “Do you want to go to your drivers room? A bit more private?”
Oscar nodded again.
”He’ll be okay, honey. He’ll be ok.” It might be the first time in his life he thought his mom was lying to him.
-
Knees bent awkwardly, Oscar’s curled up on the chair in his driver’s room. He hadn’t cleaned it and he was glad, the extra padding made it somehow more comfortable. His phone rested on his knees, watching the race, the viewing, like it wasn’t just outside. Truthfully, he couldn’t bear being outside.
The race was red flagged, and there was no set restart time. As soon as he’d gotten the channel up, the screen showed it. The helicopter flying in, paramedics getting Lando. The camera didn’t zoom in but didn’t turn away. They’re doing CPR as they take him to the plane. Oscar’s nauseous again.
If anything, the commentators try to focus on something else. Focus on the FIA, and if they’ll decide to restart the race at all. Focus on George, how he was seen getting in the ambulance. Oscar hoped George wasn’t hurt. Oscar was begging for Lando to be alive. One much out ruled the other in his worries, one of them was clearly worse.
The whole time he sits there, watching, he’s teary eyed. Everything’s blurry and every now and then he has to wipe his cheeks. His mom had given him water and left, apparently going to find his sisters, or something of the like. It had gone in one ear and out the other. It was nice being alone, not crying in front of anyone. It would be nice having his mom too, though.
After quite a long time, the FIA decides to restart the race. Oscar doesn’t want to drive. He sits in his driver’s room, in his chair, unmoving until Andrea comes and finds him. He’s dragging Oscar out—Oscar shakes his head but his limbs feel too heavy to protest, his heart too loud in his body to think, his voice too weak to protest.
When he’s handed his balaclava he holds it uselessly, as well as his helmet. With enough complaints Andrea comes back over, guiding Oscar to put it on, like he was a small child incapable of doing it himself. Somewhat, he felt that way. He felt he couldn’t lift his hands over his head, he felt he couldn’t move without being moved.
Back in the car—he doesn’t remember climbing in, or anything leading up to this moment—Oscar’s simply hoping he doesn’t puke in his helmet. The most terrifying part is as he’s driving, he keeps going on autopilot. He’ll come back to his senses shocked, being told something on the radio or hitting a curb rough enough to jostle him. It wasn’t safe.
As they raced—everyone lacked the urgency. They didn’t fight as hard for position, they didn’t push for big gaps. The race had been dampened and everyone was more worried—about Lando, about their own safety, about each other. Oscar hadn’t seen the wreckage, not up close, not like they had.
Oscar crosses the line first. Instead of hearing a congratulations from the team he unplugs his radio as soon as it crackled to life. In the interview, Oscar barely spoke. Unprofessional, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know when, but Lewis managed to get third, and he was nice enough to take the brunt of the questions and give Oscar a few reassuring pats on the shoulder. Max was in second, and he didn’t really talk either. The interviewer didn’t even seem upset or bothered, and Oscar felt bad but not that bad.
The podium was a dull affair. As it should’ve been. When he got back to the garage, he brushed a lot of people off to get to his drivers room. He’s quick to change out of his race suit and get his shit together. He just wants to go home. The plan is to ignore everyone on the way out, too. Except he gets stopped.
Zak Brown stands in front of him. Oscar nearly pushed right past him, but thinks better of it. Which is probably the first active thought he’s had in a minute.
“Congratulations.”
Oscar hummed, not wanting to say anything verbally. Not wanting to give Zak the time of day. Not wanting to be congratulated, not after being forced to race. He should be happy, he won his home race, but it was hard to care. Since Lando was in some hospital, probably in surgery or on life support—and fuck, Oscar wants to go home.
“Lando would’ve been glad you kept racing. That you won.” Zak sickens Oscar. It’s never been great, but over the years there has been growing discontent between the two, and this was only amplifying it all.
“Lando probably would rather be driving alongside me than in a fucking hospital.” Oscar hissed before he knew it, recoiling slightly at the anger in his own tone. He didn’t want to sound like he was blaming Zak, but it certainly came off that way.
“Listen, Oscar—,” Zak starts, raising his hand slightly. Oscar isn’t sure what for but he eyes it warily. “I didn’t stop you just to congratulate you. We’ve got an update on Lando.”
Oscar stills. Hair stands up on the back of his neck uncomfortably. Zak’s face is flat, and Oscar knows immediately. If there was any amount of good news Zak would be shouting it up and down the halls, would be celebrating that Lando was ok. Oscar can’t prepare himself to hear it, not mentally.
“What is it?” Oscar asks slowly. Zak looks away, and Oscar thinks there is bile rising in his throat. When Zak clears his throat, Oscar doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move at all. Waiting just a second feels somehow like an eternity, stretching to feel so long when it’s been barely any time at all.
“I’m sure you saw when the MedEvac came… they were doing CPR.” Zak started slowly, and Oscar nodded. Of course he had. “They were fighting to keep his pulse. He still wasn’t stable by the time they got him to the hospital. The injuries… they were to severe…”
“Lando… has passed.”
Air strikes out of Oscar in a pitiful, choked sob, and he pushes past Zak. Calling after Oscar, Zak’s words don’t make it to Oscar’s ears as he’s pushing out the door. Once he’s outside—he’s too panicked, he’s too desperate. Oscar just runs.
While the thought of running meant he was escaping it was nice, it wouldn’t last. When he walked in the house, his families house, he’s a mess. Panting and crying. There’s nothing better to do than collapse into his mom’s arm, sobbing like a child, trying to tell them but it was all incoherent from his lips.
When Oscar found his voice, he didn’t stop talking. He told them, everything. From before the race, what Zak said, all coming out too fast for them to properly calm him down. He tells them about how they were supposed to be getting burgers, but can’t finish the sentence without breaking into a sob.
That evening Oscar does little but cry. The sobs do die down, but he’s still crying, just quietly. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t get up from the couch. Someone’s always at his side until it’s dark, but no one manages to get him up, so they bring a pillow and blanket to him. Oscar falls asleep with his throat raw from sobbing, his eyes aching from wiping at them, his head pounding at the base of his skull.
-
Oscar blinks awake, rubbing at his eyes. Everything is hazy. It takes a second to realize he isn’t on the living room couch. The hotel room is just as it was yesterday morning, but Oscar didn’t remember going back to the hotel. Probably just forgetful, he brushed it off. He picked up his phone.
7:32 AM. Sunday, March 8th.
What the fuck.