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I lied about the whales.
“I’m proud of you, mate, I promise. Just a shit situation, that’s all,” Lando replied, a firm hand hitting Oscar’s shoulder as he took his helmet off. “Your first win.”
“I’m sorry, Lando.”
“No, really! It’s okay!” he insisted. Oscar could see the lie plastered over his face.
He should be overjoyed, really. Should climb to the top step of the podium, douse himself with champagne and let Lewis and Lando do it for him, revel in it, let the feeling show on his face – but he didn’t deserve it. He felt like this win was a fluke, a fraud, only obtained through his teammate submitting to the less-than-optimal orders.
The sun was bright when his name was finally called to make his way onto the podium. It clouded his vision, the bright McLaren papaya barely visible past the glare of light that distracted him. The champagne stood precariously on the slanted edge of the top step, threatening to slide and topple away from him.
Oscar opened it prematurely.
Fantastical blue water-dwellers, big, slow moaners of the coastal.
Finally, finally, Oscar released himself from the confines of where he was clipped into the seat.
Victory. Real victory, unmarred by incidents or team orders. The streets of Baku roared to life as he waved to the crowd, until he jumped off the car and ran into the arms of papaya orange that awaited him with a relieved intake of breath.
Lando finished fourth, a few seconds shy of the silver Mercedes of George Russell. Oscar saw him running towards him, stumbling over his own feet with a dazzling smile as he opened his arms out for an embrace.
“Mate…” Lando said loudly from behind his ear. “That was wicked.”
“Wicked, you say?” Oscar chuckled in response, wrapping a free hand round Lando’s waist and holding his helmet tightly in the other.
Lando was proud of him.
This time, when he stepped out onto the podium, the sun was behind him.
I never saw them. Not once that whole frozen year.
Oscar felt the beat of the electronic music Lando was playing on his DJ set like a pulse travelling through his head. He stared down at the red drink sloshing about in his glass, eyes tracking a miscellaneous black speck floating through the liquid. He took a sip, drunk enough to tolerate the taste and certainly not sober enough to remember how many drinks came before this.
His eyes met Lando, who had unceremoniously kicked the hired DJ off the set to play some horrendous mix-up of dance music Oscar vaguely recognised from his teenage years. He had an empty shot glass in one hand while he bumped his shoulders to the music, still riding the everlasting high of winning the Constructor’s Championship.
Lando and Oscar, champions of the world. The thought hung sweetly in Oscar’s mouth, sweeter than the drink Oscar took another swig of before grimacing and placing it down at the bar.
He could feel Lando stalking up behind him, sensing his departure from the set as soon as the music became slightly more bearable. He turned just in time to catch Lando poking him in the side and flashing his perfect white teeth at Oscar.
“Hi, Lando,” Oscar nodded.
“Hiya Osc…” Lando knocked into him, bumping shoulders together as he giggled. “Can you come with me for a minute?”
“Yeah, sure,” Oscar agreed, assuming Lando needed some space from the suffocating air of the club. He hooked a finger around Lando’s wrist and followed him through the hoards of drunken mechanics, to the glass double-doors out to the balcony. The night was still as the doors swung shut behind them, stars winking above the Abu Dhabi skyline. Oscar turned to Lando. “You okay?”
“Mm,” Lando hummed, eyes trailing around Oscar’s face. “I’m happy.”
“Good,” Oscar replied, a small smile gracing his lips. “World champions, me and you.” Lando’s grin widened further, his head knocking against the crook of Oscar’s neck as he pulled him into a loose hug.
“Oscar, can I kiss you?”
Oscar’s hand stilled where it was awkwardly patting Lando’s back.
“You’re too drunk.”
“You are too, it’s fine, Osc.”
Oscar pulled back from the embrace and looked down at Lando, only a couple of inches away from brushing his nose. Lando sniffed and looked down to the space of wooden balcony between them. “Promise, we never have to do it again. I’m just so happy. I want to.”
And without asking again, Lando closed the ocean between them to lock comfortably onto Oscar’s lips. Oscar couldn’t bring himself to do anything but return the kiss, melting himself into the sweaty body of Lando against the black iron railing of the balcony, hoping to God that no one was looking. No one would care anyway.
Sure, I saw the raw white gannets hit the waves so hard it could have been a showy blow hole. But I knew it wasn’t.
Oscar could taste the champagne on his tongue before he stepped out of the car to the scream of the engines and the crowd in Zandvoort. His first grand slam. Pole position, leading the entire race, fastest lap, win. The success felt like it had run to Oscar like water down a mountain, perfectly unheeded, unrushed, easy.
It would be a lie to call anything easy. But for a moment during the Dutch Grand Prix, Oscar could feel the driver’s championship hot on the back of his neck like it was already his. He led the championship, thirty-four points ahead of Lando, who he could now see stalking around the garage after an oil leak forced him to retire.
Oscar didn’t like when Lando didn’t finish. It made him feel like the win was undeserved, like the universe let him off with a slap on the head instead of giving him a real fight that he could win fairly. Even so, the personal space he had gained from an extra twenty-five points on his teammate had him breathing a sigh of relief as he greeted his team.
Isack hurtled towards him as he turned around, Oscar offering a handshake to the rookie bouncing off his feet with excitement at his first podium. This was probably a better day for Isack than it is for Oscar. Nevertheless, he almost felt like he deserved to win.
Sometimes, you just want something so hard you have to lie about it, so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute, how real hunger has a real taste.
He lost the championship lead. It was stupid, really, just a less-than-ideal qualifying session, the car bouncing and jumping under his frayed nerves all weekend.
Mexico City saw Lando basking in the warm light of the podium, high on the top step, like a king looking over his servants. Oscar would have killed to be standing in his place. To demote Lando to second place, look down on him, to show him. Show him that Oscar isn’t cracking under the pressure of the championship.
But of course, he is. Recently, the string of sweltering races has given Oscar the same vivid dreams of winning, winning, and winning the championship, and cornering a defeated Lando in another sweaty Abu Dhabi club, kissing him like a champion. It has always ended with Oscar apologising, running away, waking up hard in a too-hot hotel room with tears staining his cheeks.
Maybe he should see a doctor, or a psychologist, or a spiritual healer. Maybe someone could throw a crystal at his head and cure him of this burning desire for success, for his teammate.
Lando didn’t look at him when he stepped off the podium, brushed past Oscar with a gentle hand on the small of his back and mumbled, “Good race.”
It wasn’t a good race.
Someone once told me gannets, those voracious sea birds of the North Atlantic chill, go blind from the height and speed of their dives.
Oscar couldn’t feel his throat as he rounded the last corner of Abu Dhabi, fireworks exploding, destroying the silent sky into a thousand pieces of hot light, as if the universe were chanting Lando, Lando, Lando. He had lost the world championship to his teammate.
As he started his cooldown lap, he wondered whether it would have felt better or worse if Max had stolen the championship for the fifth year in a row. Maybe then, Oscar could kid himself into believing it was never attainable. Maybe then, he could ignore the glaring third place in the standings, ignore the countless qualifying positions where Oscar trailed Lando by a hair’s width.
Failure tasted almost foreign as he pulled into the second place marker and disconnected his radio. The world sunk low into his stomach before choking its way up into his mouth, and Oscar climbed out of his car like it was suffocating him.
His mind raced through the circuit of the Dutch Grand Prix, through each straight and turn, remembering how it felt to hold the championship so easily in the palm of his hand. He wondered how he let the beast grow so huge by the time Abu Dhabi arrived. No wonder I was so slow compared to Max, Oscar realises. The car was probably thirty kilograms overweight with my conscience inside it.
He moved through the crowd, moved through the cool-down room, glided messily onto the podium. The second step felt like an insult, but he endured its leering view as the crowd cheered louder. Suddenly, the too-familiar music that signaled the start of the celebrations began to play, and Oscar finally saw Lando as he was. Tears streaming, sweat pouring off the back of his neck.
Oscar picked up his bottle of Moët e Chandon, popping it open and storming over to Lando.
The world champion saw the bottle being raised, opened his mouth to Oscar, and started drinking.
But that, too, is a lie. Gannets never go blind and they certainly never die.
“Come on, Lando,” Oscar murmured, leading him to the same stupid club balcony from last year. Lando followed dutifully.
The champion’s eyes were still glazed over, red from alcohol and emotion. His hair was soaking from sweat, or water, or drink, and Lando still looked alive like he was in the car.
Oscar probably looked a little less emotional and a little more drunk as he roughly grabbed the sides of Lando’s face. Lando did not respond.
“Lando,” Oscar repeated. “Lando.”
“Oscar.”
The sky outside rumbled with the suggestion of a storm arriving next year, and the last of the clear starry night passed overhead as Lando’s eyes reflected them.
“Go on, kiss me like a world champion.”