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“— Oscar, you'll need to head back to the pit lane.”
The team was definitely pulling a prank on him. They'd just finished the national anthem, and Oscar was simply adjusting himself in the driver's seat when the radio crackled to life, five minutes before the formation lap began. "What?"
"There's a problem with the car."
"Yeah, Lando's car!" The words came out sharper than he meant. "He's already in there, isn't he? You just told me to hold it off for both of us on the track today!"
"We know." A pause, heavy with something Oscar couldn't name. "It's a different issue from his."
No way. "Yeah, right." He tried to laugh, but it came out badly. "It's not funny, guys!"
The headset crackled and was passed from hand to hand until the voice settled into Zak Brown's familiar tone. "Hey, Oscar, buddy. You've got to come into the pit right now. We're already dealing with Lando's car — he's not starting for sure. We're worried yours has problems too. Different ones."
Oscar chewed on his bottom lip, barely holding himself back from blurting out something foolish.
Over the past ten months of his career, he couldn't help but wonder if, just sometimes, McLaren was screwing him over. Sure, they were a team. Sure, he and Lando were now lovers, connected by some invisible string that neither of them could explain. But Lando was McLaren's before he ever belonged to Oscar, before Oscar was part of McLaren at all. So sometimes Oscar felt as if all their strategies favoured Lando just a little more.
He had opened up to Lando about this jealousy — this insecurity — several times over the past year. Lando would simply reassure him that everything he was today was thanks to Oscar and their years together, rather than to anything McLaren had done for him. He would remind Oscar how loved he was, how much the team looked out for him more than he realised. Then he would kiss Oscar's skin so reverently that all that remained in Oscar's traitorous mind was the name of his partner, without the bitter sting.
And things would return to normal after that. They'd go back to being the beloved Landoscar, together forming one big happy papaya family.
And Oscar held the naive belief that this season would be different. He thought that with Lando finally winning the WDC, perhaps McLaren would now treat them as equals. Maybe he wouldn't be asked to give positions back to other drivers anymore. Maybe now Oscar wouldn't be told to slow down deliberately, just because Lando faced an issue during racing and they needed to ensure "fairness" within the papaya team.
But then a radio like this crackled to life. So it wasn't hard for Oscar to assume this was once again McLaren asking him to do it "for the team." He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, remembering to keep his head cool. To not show emotion where a million people could hear him.
"You're..." his voice faltered. "You're being serious?"
He nearly detected the disappointment in Zak's voice. "Yeah. Sorry, Oscar."
Oscar begrudgingly drove to the pit, mentally counting down the five minutes, praying against all odds that his car could be fixed just in time. But when he reached the box and saw Lando still seated in his car, with only his watery eyes visible through the visor, he knew it was a lost cause.
As Lando turned and saw Oscar, something shattered behind his visor. Oscar could see it in the way his shoulders dropped, in the slight shake of his head, in the hand that came up to press against the cockpit edge as if he needed something to hold onto.
Oscar turned off his engine. The sudden silence was deafening.
Mechanics swarmed both cars immediately, a flurry of orange moving with urgent purpose. Oscar sat still, hands frozen on the steering wheel, watching the chaos unfold through his peripheral vision. He didn't want to look at Lando. Didn't want to see the disappointment reflected back at him. Didn't want to confront the ugly little voice in his head whispering that maybe — just maybe — this was proof.
Proof of what, he couldn't quite pin down. That he didn't belong? That the team would always prioritise Lando? That the universe itself was conspiring to prevent him from completing a race?
Two races, he thought numbly. Two races this season, and I haven't finished a single grand prix.
Someone tapped his shoulder. He looked up to see one of the engineers gesturing for him to step out. Oscar moved automatically, limbs acting without his control, and found himself standing on the pit lane floor, helmet still on, staring at the back of Lando's car.
Lando was already out. He stood a few metres away, surrounded by engineers, his helmet removed, his face displaying something complicated that Oscar couldn't quite understand. Their eyes met briefly, long enough for Oscar to notice a sheen of moisture there, before Lando looked away.
He's upset, Oscar thought. Of course, he's upset. His race is over too. But knowing that didn't stop the cold knot from forming in his stomach.
"Oscar." Zak was beside him now, hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from the chaos. "Come on, let's get you inside."
Oscar allowed himself to be led. What else could he do? The car was dead. The race was over. Another weekend, another DNS, another fucking failure before he'd even had a chance to prove himself.
They passed Lando on the way to the garage. Close enough that Oscar could see the tracks on his cheeks that he hadn't bothered to hide. Close enough that Lando's hand reached out briefly and brushed against Oscar's elbow.
It was meant to offer comfort. Oscar understood that. Yet all he felt was the burden: the burden of Lando's success, Lando's championship, Lando's position in this team that Oscar was still, after all this time, fighting to belong to.
He didn't react to the touch. He simply kept walking.
The garage was quieter than it should have been. The chaos of the pit lane faded into a muffled hum as Oscar sat on a crate in the corner, helmet finally off, staring at nothing. Someone had handed him a bottle of water. It sat unopened in his lap.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there before Lando found him. "You okay?"
The question was so ridiculous that Oscar nearly laughed. Nearly. Instead, he looked up at Lando — at his boyfriend, his partner, the man he loved more than anyone else — and felt nothing but a cold, empty void.
"Two races," Oscar said quietly. "Two races, and I haven't begun either of them."
Lando's face fell. He sat down on the crate beside Oscar, close enough for their shoulders to touch. "I know. I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"I know it's not." Lando's voice was gentle. "But I'm still sorry. This is shit. It's absolute shit."
Oscar nodded, unable to trust himself to speak. They sat in silence for a long moment. The garage hummed around them: distant voices, the beep of equipment, and the muffled roar of the race beginning without them. Neither of them moved.
"Zak said it was a different issue," Oscar finally said. "Your car and mine. Different problems."
"Yeah." Lando's voice was carefully neutral. "Completely unrelated. Just... bad luck."
Bad luck. The phrase echoed in Oscar's mind. Was that what this was? Bad luck? Or was it something else — a cosmic sign that he didn't belong here, that he'd never truly belong here, that no matter how hard he worked or how fast he drove, he'd always be the other McLaren driver, the second choice, the one who was asked to move aside?
He thought about the radio call. The way his mind had instantly jumped to conspiracy. The way he'd assumed, without evidence, that the team was messing him about again.
That's not fair, a small voice whispered. They're not doing this to you. It's just bad luck. It's just —
But the voice was small, and the hollow feeling was very, very large.
"Oscar." Lando's hand found his, warm and familiar. "Talk to me."
Oscar gazed at their joined hands. Lando's fingers intertwined with his, and his thumb traced slow circles on his skin. Lando's steady, constant presence remained, even as everything else fell apart.
He loves me, Oscar thought. I know he loves me. So why does it still feel like I am alone in this?
"I don't know what to say," Oscar admitted. "I don't know how to keep doing this."
Lando's grip tightened. "You keep doing it because you're Oscar Piastri. Because you're the most stubborn person I've ever met. Because you've spent your whole life proving people wrong, and this —" He gestured vaguely at the garage, at the race happening without them, at the whole fucking mess. "This is just another thing to prove wrong."
Oscar's throat tightened. "What if I can't? What if this is just... what it is? What if I'm not meant to —"
"Stop." Lando's voice was firm. "Don't do that. Don't let two races define your entire career. You're better than that. You're better than this."
"Am I?" The words slipped out before Oscar could stop them. "Because right now, I don't feel like it. Right now, I just feel... here. Taking up space. Watching you win while I —" He cut himself off, but it was already too late.
Lando went very still beside him. "Is that what you think?" Lando's voice was quiet. "That you're just... taking up space?"
Oscar didn’t respond.
"Oscar." Lando turned to face him fully, both hands now cupping Oscar's face, forcing him to meet his eyes. Lando's were red-rimmed, still wet, but fierce. So fucking fierce. "Listen to me. You are not taking up space. You are not the second choice. You are not —" His voice cracked. "You are everything. You're everything to me. And if you can't believe that right now, then I'll just have to keep saying it until you do."
Oscar's eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, looking away, but Lando's hands held him steady.
"I mean it," Lando whispered. "I know this is tough. I understand it feels like the world is against you. But I am not against you. The team isn't against you. And you —" He pressed his forehead to Oscar's. "You are going to get through this. Because that's what you do. That's who you are."
For a long moment, Oscar simply breathed. Lando's breath mingled with his. Lando's hands felt warm on his skin. Lando's presence, steady and real, persisted even as everything else seemed to be crumbling.
Oscar whispered, "I don't know how to be okay."
"You don't have to be okay." Lando pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You just have to be here. That's enough. That's always enough."
Oscar wanted to believe him. He hoped the words would sink in, filling the empty space in his chest. But the emptiness was stubborn, and the words slipped through like water through fingers.
Lando seemed to sense it. His expression softened, a flicker of understanding appearing in his eyes. "Okay. Not today. That's fine." He squeezed Oscar's hands. "But I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"
Oscar nodded. He knew that deep down. In the part of him that still remembered what being fifteen felt like — terrified but suddenly not alone anymore — he understood that Lando wasn't going anywhere. But knowing it and truly feeling it were two different things.
"Come on." Lando stood, gently helping Oscar to his feet. "Let's get out of here. We can go back to the hotel, order room service, and watch the rest of the race on TV like normal people who didn't just have their weekend ruined."
Oscar allowed himself to be pulled. Allowed himself to be led. Allowed himself to lean into Lando's warmth as they stepped out of the garage, past the sympathetic glances of mechanics and engineers, past the screens still showing the race unfolding without them.
The sun was too bright outside. The crowd was too loud. None of it felt real.
But Lando's hand on his felt real. Lando's shoulder pressed against his felt real. And for now, that would have to be enough.
They returned to the hotel without any problems. Lando ordered food — Oscar's favourite, of course — and they sat side by side on the hotel bed, watching the race unfold on the screen. Neither of them said much.
When Lando's hand found his again, Oscar held on tightly. But beneath the warmth of Lando's presence, beneath the comfort of familiar touch, something cold and stubborn persisted. A voice that whispered: Two races. Two races and nothing to show for them. How long until they stop believing in you? How long until you stop believing in yourself?
Oscar watched the cars scream past on the screen. He watched Kimi Antonelli climb the podium he was on last year. He watched someone else celebrate.
And he reflected on all the things he wanted to say. All the frustration, fear, and insecurity that clawed at his chest, demanding to be released. All the words that would pour out if he allowed himself to fall apart.
But now was not the time for that.
Now, he had to put on a brave face. Now, he had to be okay — or at least look as if he was — because Lando was watching, and he had had his heart broken too, but he was still looking after Oscar first.
He drew a breath and exhaled slowly.
And he waited. Because that's all he could do, after all.