Chapter Text
THE SKY SPORTS F1 BROADCAST
With David Croft (Lead Commentator) and Martin Brundle (Co-commentator)
“…and as we head into lap 26 of this Grand Prix, Lando Norris continues his charge, chasing down the leader with blistering pace. His teammate, Oscar Piastri, is doing a stellar job defending in P4, holding off one of the Ferraris…” David raised his voice excitedly. “And there goes Max Verstappen in the lead! Wait—Wait! Yellow flag in Sector 3! Big yellow flag!”
“Oh, that’s a massive hit!” Martin reported with surprise. “We’ve got a car heavily buried in the barriers at Turn 7! And there is fire—active flames licking the rear of the chassis!”
“Oh, my goodness, that is a horrific impact! Violent flips! Side-on into the TecPro barriers, and into the catch fencing.” David shook his head, motionless. “Race Control has thrown the Red Flag immediately. Red Flag on track, the session is suspended. The deceleration on that crash must have been gargantuan… Look at the debris field! That is a McLaren. It’s car 81. That’s Oscar Piastri!”
On the global feed broadcast, the television director quickly cut away from the crash site and switched to a wide, distant helicopter shot—this was the FIA’s standard safety protocol when a driver’s condition was unknown.
“They’ve cut the replays, Crofty… that is never a good sign. The medical car is already on the scene, and the marshals are rushing in with extinguishers, but the car is absolutely shattered. The sidepod is completely torn open, hence the fuel ignition. We are looking closely at the cockpit… but there is no movement yet from Oscar.”
“He’s been in that car, amidst the flames, for a full minute now.” David’s voice was low, gradually losing its usual energy. His tone was replaced by a tense, hoarse one as he continued, “There’s a deathly silence on the track and in the stands. I think… I think we are all fearing the worst here, Martin.”
“It’s never good when there’s fire involved… never.” Martin nodded heavily. “The carbon fiber survival cell is incredibly robust, it’s designed to withstand immense loads, but a lateral impact like that—T-boning the barrier at that speed—is where the human body takes the brunt of the kinetic energy. If he’s not climbing out on his own, he’s either trapped by the deformed chassis or he’s been knocked unconscious by the G-forces.”
“The cameras are panning to the McLaren garage now… the faces on the pit wall say it all. Absolute, petrified silence. No data, no radio communication. We are just staring at an empty track, waiting for any sign of life from Sector 3.” David reported, looking at Martin. “Let’s pray, Martin.”
“Let’s pray.”
The screen cut to the official FOM graphic flashing in the top-left corner: RED FLAG / SESSION SUSPENDED.
RACE CONTROL: Red Flag. Red Flag. Session suspended.
FERRARI TEAM RADIO | PIT → LEC
ENGINEER: Red flag, Charles. Red flag. Delta positive, look after the tires on the way back.
CHARLES LECLERC: Copy. Everyone good? Who is that? Who is in the wall? [Static] There is… there is a lot of smoke. Is it Osc—
ENGINEER: It’s the McLaren of Piastri. Turn 7. The car went into a series of barrel rolls and heavy impact. We are checking.
CHARLES LECLERC: [His voice began to tremble, losing his composure due to evident panic] Is he out? Bryan, tell me he is out of the car. Is he moving?!
ENGINEER: [In a very soft voice, almost a clinical whisper, trying to calm him down] We don’t have confirmation yet, Charles. They are… they are dealing with a fire. Medical car is on scene.
CHARLES LECLERC: No… no… Not again. [His voice broke] Please… not again. Bryan, do they have a radio check? Is Oscar talking to them?
ENGINEER: Charles, please. Focus on the delta. Mode pit. Keep your head down, mate. We are monitoring the situation closely, I promise you.
CHARLES LECLERC: [A frustrated punch was heard against the single-seater] Just… just let me know as soon as you hear anything. Please.
ENGINEER: I will, Charles. Box this lap.
PIT → HAM
ENGINEER: Red flag, Lewis. Red flag.
LEWIS HAMILTON: Understood. Is everyone okay? That looked huge.
ENGINEER: We don’t have confirmation yet, Lewis. It’s Piastri. Marshal sector 3 is on it.
LEWIS HAMILTON: [With a serious voice, slowing down the pace on the track] Man… I just passed the debris field. The car is torn in half, Santi. There’s a fire. Is he… is he climbing out?
ENGINEER: No visual on Oscar yet, Lewis. He’s still in the cockpit. Medical car has just arrived. Please keep your delta positive on the way back.
LEWIS HAMILTON: [A loud, tense sigh was heard through the radio] God… that’s a massive shunt. Turn 7 is so fast. Please keep me updated. Just tell me he’s okay when you know.
ENGINEER: Copy that, Lewis. We will let you know as soon as Race Control gives an update. Mode pit, box this lap.
ASTON MARTIN TEAM RADIO | PIT → ALO
ENGINEER: Red flag, Fernando. Debris on main straight and heavy damage in Turn 7.
FERNANDO ALONSO: Ay, ay, ay. Big shunt. The car is completely in pieces by the looks of it. Is he out?
ENGINEER: No medical car update yet. Keep your delta positive.
RED BULL TEAM RADIO | PIT → VER
ENGINEER: Red flag, Max. Red flag. Session is suspended.
MAX VERSTAPPEN: Copy that. What happened?
ENGINEER: Piastri lost the rear into Turn 7. Very heavy contact with the barrier, there is fire, but it’s under control now.
MAX VERSTAPPEN: Oof, big shunt. [Static] Turn 7 is a nasty place to lose it. Is he alright? Tell me if he’s out.
ENGINEER: No updates yet, Max. He is still in the cockpit. Keep the delta positive on the way in.
MAX VERSTAPPEN: Understood. Let me know when you hear something.
WILLIAMS TEAM RADIO | PIT → ALB
ENGINEER: Red flag, Alex. Red flag. Watch out for debris on the approach to Turn 7, pick up the rubber on the inside line.
ALEX ALBON: Copy. Man, that’s a huge impact. Oscar’s car is completely destroyed. Is he out?
ENGINEER: No, he is still in the car, Alex. Medical car is there.
ALEX ALBON: [Static] Dammit. Praying he’s okay. That was a scary one.
PIT → SAI
ENGINEER: Red flag, Carlos. Red flag. Debris in Sector 3, track is fully blocked.
CARLOS SAINZ: Copy, red flag. [Sounding worried] It’s a McLaren, right? I think I saw the orange chassis.
ENGINEER: Affirm, it’s Piastri. Car flipped multiple times. Very heavy G-force impact on the left side.
CARLOS SAINZ: Madre mía! [Heavy breathing] Is he moving? Do we have any radio from them?
ENGINEER: No info yet, Carlos. They are cutting the television feed. We are monitoring.
CARLOS SAINZ: [Voice dropping, sounding a bit more worried] Understood. Keep me updated as soon as you know, please. That looked awful.
MERCEDES TEAM RADIO | PIT → ANT
ENGINEER: Red flag, Kimi. Red flag. Drop the speed, mode pit, keep the delta positive. Big incident in Sector 3.
KIMI ANTONELLI: Copy, red flag. [Breathing heavily, slightly shaken] Oh my God… I just passed Turn 7. There is a lot of debris and… there is fire. Who is that?
ENGINEER: It’s Piastri, Kimi. Don’t look at the screens, just focus on the track. Keep your eyes on the debris on the racing line and bring the car home.
KIMI ANTONELLI: Is he okay? That looked terrible. [Static] My God that’s…
ENGINEER: Medical team is dealing with it. Box this lap.
PIT → RUS
ENGINEER: Red flag, George. Red flag. Clear track ahead, keep your delta positive on the way back to the pit lane.
GEORGE RUSSELL: Copy, red flag. Who is that in Turn 7? There’s a massive cloud of smoke. Is it a McLaren?
ENGINEER: Confirm, it’s Piastri. Heavy side impact into the TecPro and into the catch fencing. Marshals are deploying extinguishers now.
GEORGE RUSSELL: [Tone turning serious and urgent] That’s a high-speed section. Is he out of the car? Marcus, tell me he is out.
ENGINEER: No confirmation yet, George. Medical car is on scene. Just bring it into the pit lane, please.
MCLAREN TEAM RADIO | PIT → NOR
WILL JOSEPH (ENGINEER): Red flag, Lando. Red flag, red flag. Keep the delta positive… Lots of fire in Turn 7.
Lando’s heart sank.
He knew the track inside out; he knew how fast that corner was. Lando’s breathing instantly turned shallow and ragged, echoing through the helmet microphone over the static. He was afraid to keep listening when it was a red flag. He was afraid of what he would hear.
LANDO NORRIS: Copy. Is everyone alright? [Voice cracking, breathless] Will, who is that? Who is in the wall in Turn 7?
ENGINEER: It’s… [Brief pause] It’s Oscar, Lando. Oscar has had a major shunt.
His blood ran cold.
No.
No…
It couldn’t be true.
No…
Lando’s world ground to a halt with those words. His heart stopped at the weight of their meaning. He felt the car continue rolling down the track under red flag conditions, but he barely felt like he was driving. He had become a ghost trapped in his own cockpit, seemingly living a nightmare through a voice in his ear.
No.
No, please.
Through his helmet visor, Lando’s gaze frantically fixed on one of the screens he passed on the track, showing an active fire with debris.
Please.
Please, no.
ENGINEER: Oscar’s car flipped multiple times. He impacted beyond the TecPro barriers. No medical car update yet.
God.
Lando blinked, his mind beginning to blur.
God, no.
LANDO NORRIS: [Whispering, panic rising] No, no, no, no… Not Oscar. Please. Not him. Please, my God, not Osc… [Static, erratic breathing could be heard] Fuck, fuck fuck! Will, talk to me! Is he out of the car?! Tell me he’s okay. There’s fucking fire! Please, please!
ENGINEER: [Tone heavy, trying to remain professional but clearly shaken] Sorry, Lando. No updates yet. Still nothing.
Lando bit his lower lip, feeling the familiar metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He couldn’t control his breathing, not when tears blurred his vision inside his helmet and his hands gripped the steering wheel in a painful throb. Lando’s heart raced, unable to slow down, as a single, desperate and devastating thought pounded in his chest, making him gasp:
Not now. Not now, when Oscar doesn’t know yet… When I haven’t even had the courage to tell him. He can’t leave me like this.
Please.
LANDO NORRIS: [Pleading, his voice completely broken] Tell Tom to radio him again! He has to answer! He has to! Fuck. Will, please, tell me something!
ENGINEER: Tom is trying to radio him, but we think Oscar’s radio is down, Lando. We don’t have visual. We have no audio telemetry from his car. G-force sensor triggered the medical warning. We are trying to get an update from Race Control and the marshals. We will let you know as soon as possible.
LANDO NORRIS: No, no, no! What do you mean you don’t have visual?! Tom, Will! Still nothing?!
ENGINEER: I’m sorry. Still nothing… Just focus on bringing the car back, mate.
LANDO NORRIS: [A choked sob escaped into the radio, raw and painful] Fuck, fuck… Osc. Please, please let me know… Please. Please…
ENGINEER: Will do, mate. Keep your head down. Box this lap.
LANDO NORRIS: [Static, whispering] God. Please…
PIT → PIA
TOM STALLARD (ENGINEER): Oscar, do you copy? You okay? [Static] Oscar? Are you okay? If you can hear me, radio check…
ENGINEER: Oscar, press the radio button if you are okay. Medical car is on scene. Oscar, do you copy?
OSCAR PIASTRI: [The static sound was the only thing that could be heard]
Lando drove into the pit lane with his heart in his throat.
He abruptly stopped the car in front of the McLaren garage, caring about nothing but one thing. Normally the mechanics would have surrounded the car immediately, but at that moment the atmosphere in the pit box seemed to freeze. No one reacted, no one said anything, no one even made any move.
Lando didn’t wait for his trackside mechanic to remove the HANS device straps when the man approached the car after finally snapping out of his daze. With his face pale and bloodshot eyes, Lando ripped off his helmet and the fireproof balaclava in one swift motion—he yanked the steering wheel away, unbuckled his harnesses and leaped out of the cockpit before he even had time to organize the chaos of his thoughts, his mind still a blur.
Lando’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he heard Will’s voice over the radio, and every sensation was worsening—his legs were barely holding him up.
He walked straight to the pit wall, weakly pushing aside a mechanic who was trying to calm him down. Lando couldn’t think of anything else. Fuck. Nothing else but Oscar, out there, with his life hanging by a fucking thread.
Lando only cared about one thing right now. He only cared about one person.
“Will! Will!” Lando called, stopping behind his race engineer’s chair.
Will didn’t even turn around. He had one hand pressing the earpiece to his ear, listening to the FIA’s private line. Beside him, slightly apart, was Tom, Oscar’s race engineer, his eyes glued to the telemetry monitor. Having received no response yet, Lando stared at the monitor with the same intensity as Tom—Oscar’s heart rate line was strangely high, transmitted by the biometric sensors in his gloves.
But there was still no voice. Still nothing but static.
“Tell me something, for God’s sake,” Lando pleaded, his gaze drifting from one of them to the other, searching for anything that might calm him down. His voice was no longer as frantic as it had been on the radio; now it had turned into a broken, frightened, almost wet one—the voice of someone who felt like the world was crashing down on him, like the person he cared about most was slipping away right under his nose, and he couldn’t do anything about it. “Tom, has he answered? Is he talking?”
Tom shook his head slowly, without taking his eyes off the screen.
“The medical car is there. They’re trying to extricate the car…” Tom said, pausing for a few seconds before adding, almost equally affected, “The fire’s out, Lando. But Oscar isn’t responding to the radio check. We still don’t know anything.”
Lando felt like he couldn’t breathe. The adrenaline rush he’d felt on the track slowly turned into a paralyzing chill standing there. He instinctively gripped the back of Will’s chair for balance, blinking rapidly at his white knuckles.
God, Osc.
Please.
He hadn’t stopped feeling doomed by the same prayer since this whole nightmare began—please, please, please.
Lando’s messy mind didn’t help either… it just kept replaying image after image on a loop since he arrived: Oscar’s calm smirk that morning in the motorhome, promising him that they would see each other on the podium. Oscar’s hand around Lando’s thumb instead of his hand when they shook hands in the garage, before they did it properly because it always made them giggle every time it happened. His brown eyes full of determination and warmth when he looked at Lando just before putting on his helmet, the number 81 glimmering under a mischievous ray of sunlight.
It couldn’t end like that. Lando couldn’t lose him without having told him everything he felt, without having stopped hiding behind teases and interviews all that time. It simply couldn’t.
The silence in the McLaren garage was deafening. Lando unstuck his hands from Will’s chair and took a step back, moving a meter away from the pit wall—he felt like the walls were closing in on him with every ragged breath. The air-conditioning in the garage felt like ice against his sweat-drenched skin, but he still felt like he was suffocating. Something much bigger was seeping into his bones, and being aware of it made Lando sick.
He could no longer tell if the wetness under his eyes was sweat or tears.
Someone was talking to him, but Lando still couldn’t breathe properly, still couldn’t fully control himself.
He unzipped the front of his racing suit and let it hanging from his waist, his trembling hands going to his head. Lando tangled his fingers in his messy, wet curls and tugged hard, searching for a physical pain to anchor himself to reality—a pain to drown out the deafening ringing in his ears.
Violent crash. Lots of fire in Turn 7. No updates yet. Still nothing.
Those words circled in his head like a damned death sentence.
It couldn’t end like this.
Please, no.
Lando had always been prone to anxiety, masking it well with experience, but this was immensely different; it wasn’t the fear of losing a race or making a mistake on the track. This was a pure, visceral, horrible terror that he couldn’t hide. It was the certainty that the boy who complemented him, the one whose Australian calm managed to soothe all his inner storms, might never cross that garage again.
He remembered the quiet conversation he and Oscar had had the night before at the hotel, the gentle words that seemed to mingle with the warmth of something meaningful beneath the surface, like a moment filled with unspoken secrets just beginning to blossom in Lando’s chest. A moment where he was only just beginning to fully understand why he’d felt a strange hope in the way Oscar stared at him—in the way his hand seemed to reach for something unreachable when they said goodbye in front of their rooms.
“Lando!”
Lando moved his hands away from his hair, focusing his frantic gaze once again.
“Lando, breathe. You need to breathe, mate.” Tom’s voice sounded distant and muffled.
Lando didn’t know when Tom had left his place on the pit wall and materialized in front of him.
Tom placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to guide him toward the back of the pit box, away from the TV cameras already hovering outside the garage, but Lando shook his head and gently stopped him, reluctant to move.
Lando couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screens. His gaze slid over and over the monitor displaying Oscar’s biometric data. His pulse was there, displayed on a digital line, but now it was dangerously low after the peak of the impact. Too low. Way too low.
God.
“I can’t…” Lando whispered, his breath quick and shallow. His chest tightened in a way that made him feel a sharp pain under his ribs. The tears he’d held back from the intense adrenaline finally spilled over (or maybe they’d been there all along, he didn’t know), tracing paths down his cheeks. “Tom, I don’t know what to do. If he… if he doesn’t…”
“Hey, look at me.” Tom asked, trying to block Lando’s view of the screens. “He’s in the hands of the best. Focus on me, breathe in…”
But Lando didn’t even know how to breathe properly anymore.
He was aware that everyone had heard his radio when the crash happened, all his pleas, his voice breaking, begging for news that never came. He was aware that they had seen Lando at his lowest and most vulnerable moment, but he didn’t care at all. Oscar was his teammate, his most precious friend, his favorite person so far. He was everything. And for that everything Lando would give his all, even his soul, if it meant seeing him, touching him, and hearing his voice again.
It was too much.
Lando gently moved away from Tom, unable to avoid watching the replay of Oscar’s crash displayed only on the McLaren pit wall screen.
It was exactly as Will had described it in his few words over the radio: Oscar’s car snapped on the turn, flipped violently through the air and gravel, impacted into the TecPro at 52 Gs, and it went over the barriers, into the catch fencing and the inner wall. The car was split in two. The suspension was wrecked and the sidepods ripped apart, severing fuel lines—the fire was instantaneous, an explosion of flames that licked at the chassis until it was impossible to tell where the car began and the driver ended.
The circuit screens hadn’t stopped showing the replay of the crash before all the drivers had reached the pit lane, but Lando hadn’t allowed himself to watch any longer until the international feed cut the video out of respect. He hadn’t allowed himself to watch it until now, with Oscar’s vital signs accompanying the seriousness of his crash on different screens in the garage.
Lando remembered how he felt when he heard the news on the radio, how he gripped the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. How he couldn’t control his breathing because of the uncertainty, the panic and worry engulfing his lungs, but above all because of the helplessness of not knowing if he would ever see Oscar again—see his smiles, listen his dry humor, his expressive laughter, his concise explanations when they started talking about anything related to cars.
He didn’t know if he’d ever see him again, and that thought was fucking killing him.
Lando remembered Romain Grosjean’s accident, the phoenix that rose from the ashes. He remembered his own crash at Spa-Francorchamps under the rain, and his heart leaped into his throat again. Oscar’s crash had been almost worse than Romain’s, fuck. Oscar had spun violently, rolled over several times and then the impact against the wall. Then the fire. Then the smoke that reached the very sky.
It was like seeing hell, like living a nightmare.
And it was part of the world that surrounded Formula 1 drivers.
All of a sudden, a static crack cut through the air of the garage. Lando snapped back to reality, with Tom still by his side. The entire team froze.
It was the frequency of the FIA medical car connected to the McLaren pit wall.
“Medical car to McLaren Pitwall…” A voice with a British accent crackled through the static.
Lando held his breath, almost sprinting toward the engineers with his heart in his mouth.
The FIA chief medical officer’s voice came directly through the pit wall intercoms. Will turned up the volume so the whole team could hear him, and the sound echoed in some headsets as well:
“We have arrived at the scene in Turn 7. Fire is completely extinguished by the marshals.”
Tom had quickly returned to his chair and leaned toward the microphone, his voice trembling slightly despite his years of experience.
“Copy, Medical One.” Tom glanced quickly at the telemetry screen. “What is the status of the driver? Is Oscar conscious?”
A couple of seconds of total static tortured the garage. Lando put his hand to his mouth, clenching his jaw, his heart pounding. He still had a lump in his throat, his hands still trembling slightly.
“The driver was briefly knocked out due to the lateral G-forces; his head fell to one side inside the cockpit. Extrication is underway, we are cutting the headrest and removing him with the spinal board as a precaution.” He reported over the radio. “He is regaining consciousness now. He is disoriented but breathing on his own.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the McLaren garage, a mixture of utter relief and the tension that had been building since this whole nightmare began.
Several mechanics covered their faces with their hands, Will and Tom exchanged an intense look, and Lando felt his legs give way completely. He leaned awkwardly against Tom’s chair, the air rushing back into his lungs, so cold and violent it almost hurt. The lump in his throat loosened, finally becoming a shaky exhalation. The physical collapse felt brutal, and Lando didn’t care at all about feeling eyes on him—he didn’t care that others saw him in this state.
Oscar was alive. He was breathing. He was breathing.
The weight of everything that had happened still weighed heavily on Lando’s shoulders, but for the first time in what felt like hours, panic stopped dragging him down.
The report wasn’t over.
“Understood, Medical One.” Tom breathed into the microphone with moderate relief. “Any visible major injuries?”
“He is complaining of severe pain in his left shoulder and ribs. We suspect a collarbone fracture or a shoulder dislocation due to the safety harness impact. We also see a cut on the side of his neck, but it’s not deep; and superficial burns on his hands. The extraction will take another five minutes, and we are preparing the medical helicopter to transfer him to the hospital for a full CT scan and internal checks. Hold on—” There were a few seconds of static before the man continued, “He’s talking, McLaren. He’s asking for… uh…”
The medical officer paused again on the radio. The only sounds in the background during that time were the clatter of the marshals’ tools and the scraping of metal being cut.
“He is asking about the other car,” Medical One returned, reporting. “He wants to know if Lando is okay.”
Hearing his name come over the medical radio, Lando’s legs finally gave out. He had to lean completely on Tom’s chair to keep from collapsing to his knees, his fingers digging desperately into the material.
Oscar was alive. He was being taken to the hospital by helicopter, injured, but conscious… And the first thing he had done upon waking up from the worst accident of his life was to ask about Lando.
God.
Oscar was searching for him in the midst of his own darkness, and in the most terrifying moment of his career, Lando had never felt such clarity. He didn’t want to leave him alone. He had to get to that hospital, no matter what.
Will finally turned in his chair. He looked at Lando with understanding eyes and gave him a firm nod.
“He’s alive, Lando. He’s okay.” Will said. “Go with Zak or Andrea. We’ll handle the red flag here.”
He didn’t have to say it twice. Lando let go of the chair with his heart determined, taking several steps toward the back of the garage. He grabbed his phone and started heading towards the motorhome to change and rush to the hospital, but Zak intercepted him too quickly for a man like him—his hands pressed firmly against Lando’s chest, gently stopping him.
“No, Lando. You can’t leave the circuit,” Zak said, his voice soft but authoritative. “Sorry, buddy.”
Lando’s brows twitched, and he developed a tic, staring at Zak as if he’d grown two heads. He wanted to throw something, hit anything, and scream until his lungs burst.
“They’re taking him away by helicopter, Zak! I need to—I have to go!” Lando became frustrated, trying to break free. The adrenaline surged back into his body, quickly transforming the anxiety in his chest into utter frustration. “Right now I don’t give a damn about the race or the regulations. I’m not getting in that car. Not without—”
Not without Oscar, he thought, snapping his mouth shut and clenching his jaw. Not without him. Not without knowing how he is really doing. I need to see him, with my own eyes.
“Calm down, Lando. It’s not about the race.” Andrea intervened, approaching them from the other side of the garage, his face serious.
Andrea stopped in front of him, and Lando briefly saw that McLaren’s press officer was on the phone right behind them, focused on the call.
“The race is suspended for the time being, and it’s very likely that it won’t be restarted for us.” Andrea said. “But the FIA won’t let you leave. The medical helicopter is going straight to the general hospital, and the roads around the circuit are currently gridlocked with Grand Prix traffic. If you leave now, you’ll be stuck in a car with nothing to do. We have other matters to attend to first, Lando… And you know that better than anyone.”
Lando really didn’t give a shit about the FIA rules—but it hurt to know that Andrea was right in this moment, and knowing it made him even sicker. The red flag rules were too strict for his liking, or for the liking of all the drivers, and he knew the media pressure was going to be painfully suffocating—he was going to be trapped by obligations, the press microphones, and the desperation of being away from it all. Lando knew the responsibilities they had as a team, of course he knew, and still…
Even so.
Lando ran his palms over his face, rubbing his eyes hard until he saw stars. He took a deep breath. One, two, three times. After what felt like a minute under the gaze of his bosses, he let his hands fall to his sides and slowly clenched them into fists. He felt like a caged wild animal.
“Besides,” Zak added, lowering his voice so the mechanics wouldn’t hear, “if you run off to the hospital right now, the press will smell the story. The cameras will follow you. Do you want journalists to start asking questions about why McLaren’s lead driver broke twenty thousand regulations under a red flag, abandoning the Grand Prix live on air, to go see his teammate? Do you want that kind of scrutiny on Oscar right now?”
Andrea glanced from one to the other curiously, as if there were something more behind Zak’s words that he couldn’t immediately decipher.
Lando did, though.
That argument had hit him like a punch to the gut—Zak was right. He couldn’t do that. Even if his heart was in his mouth and his soul was shaking, he couldn’t do it.
The world of Formula 1 was a viper’s nest—if Lando laid bare his feelings so publicly, the press wouldn’t leave either of them alone. Protecting his feelings and protecting Oscar meant staying put and swallowing the pain for now. Resigning himself and going through with the procedure even though Andrea and Zak had no idea what lay beyond Lando’s restlessness. What he really felt for his teammate.
“I get your concern, kid.” Zak continued, glancing around briefly before looking back at Lando. “But you have to be patient. Andrea and I will let you know if there are any changes regarding all this, okay?”
Andrea sighed, crossing his arms, “Unfortunately, it’s the only thing we can do for now, Lando.”
Just because they were right didn’t mean Lando liked it.
He let out a heavy breath.
Whenever a race was stopped by a long red flag (they had to repair the TecPro barriers destroyed by Oscar’s impact and clear the track of debris), the damned FIA protocol dictated that drivers not in their cars had to speak to the press if the break was prolonged. It was a brutal and unpleasantly real rule in their world.
Lando hated it with all his being.
But he had to do it.
Half an hour after the crash, McLaren’s press officer guided Lando toward the Media Pen, the fenced-off area where dozens of journalists—hungry vultures, as Lando used to call them to himself—held microphones and cameras.
Lando wore his team cap pulled down to his eyebrows, his hands half-tucked under the racing suit tied around his waist to hide the slight shaking that had returned.
He could feel on his back the eyes of the other drivers scattered throughout the area with every step he took, directing countless of emotions at the back of his neck that Lando could barely deal with. He could barely feel the gentle pats or grips of the friends among the drivers, pressing between his shoulder blades like ghostly halos—and that weight was too much. All of this was too much, and yet he didn’t quite know how he managed to maintain his composure amidst all the chaos and noise.
“Lando, over here! For international television.” A reporter called him, having finally found his prey.
Lando approached like a puppet being manipulated. He stopped in front of the camera with a pose well-rehearsed over the years.
“Lando, a dramatic red flag,” the reporter began, eager for the juicy tidbit Lando’s answers would bring. “We’ve seen the terrible crash involving your teammate, Oscar Piastri. The team confirms he’s conscious, but he’s been taken to the hospital. What information do you have, and how does this affect your chances of a restart?”
Lando stared into the microphone. He had to act, to put on the brief media mask. He had to be the professional driver, the concerned teammate with his head held high, when inside he was dying to scream that the person he cared about most in the world was far away, in a goddamn hospital. Lando’s throat felt dry from holding so much in so little time.
“Yeah…” Lando cleared his throat, forcing a slightly monotone voice. The lump in his throat was still hard to swallow. He wondered what his eyes looked like, too. He felt like shit, but he did his best to hide it. “It was a really hard impact. I saw it on the screens in the garage. The most important thing now is that Oscar is conscious and talking. The medical car did an incredible job. The team told me he’s in some pain, but… he’s strong. He’s a tough guy.”
“You said Oscar has spoken.” The reporter pressed on that detail, seeking sensationalism. “Were you able to speak to him on the radio? If so, what did he say?”
Lando gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched.
He is asking about the other car. He wants to know if Lando is okay.
He remembered the medical’s words as a new emptiness formed in the pit of his stomach. It was still crushing.
“No, I didn’t speak to him. I only heard the engineers.” Lando half-lie, staring at the ground to keep the camera from capturing the tears that threatened to spill. He’d been doing well. Fuck. “Right now, the race is the least of my concerns. I just want the doctors to give him a thorough check-up and… and for him to be back with us as soon as possible.”
Back with me as soon as possible, Lando thought.
“Thanks, Lando.” The reporter gave him a curt nod. “We have another question we’d like to ask y—”
He had tried, but he just couldn’t handle this.
Lando decided to turn away without another word, ignoring the vulture’s voice and the other reporters shouting his name. He didn’t care if what he’d done would have repercussions for PR in the future; it would just be added to the list of things he had to deal with later. Lando just needed to get out of there. He needed to get away from the noise and the constant attention no matter how.
He hurried through the paddock, feeling the weight of every gaze upon him—and this time, he also received numerous pitying looks from several members of the other teams’ staff.
Lando couldn’t keep pretending any longer.
It was too much.
Lando locked himself in his driver’s room when he arrived at the McLaren motorhome, not even exchanging a few words or greetings with the team staff on the way there. Feeling that pity in all those expressions directed at him made him shudder; it intensified his desire to escape his own skin.
He didn’t change his clothes. Lando locked the door—his fucking hands still shaking, damn it—and leaned his back against it. He slid slowly against the door until he was sitting on the floor, letting out a deep, ragged breath. Lando closed his eyes and drew his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around them. He grimaced as he tried to regulate his heart rate to calm it, but when he noticed he wasn’t succeeding, he buried his face in his knees and held himself tighter.
Lando felt overwhelmingly small.
He would have to wait again. He would have to wait for news that would take a while to arrive.
Lando hated feeling like this.
He didn’t know how long he’d been in that position, but the long silence in his room was a stark contrast to the roar of the engines on the track and the bustle outside. Lando’s ears had stopped ringing at some point, and the pounding of his wild heart was beginning to slow with each slow breath.
Lando lifted his head after what felt like hours and looked at his personal phone—he’d been clutching it tightly in his hand the whole time; his knuckles were pale and ached. Lando just wanted to search for a number in his contacts, but he knew all too well that Oscar wasn’t going to answer; his phone was probably in his backpack in the garage, or in Mark’s hands… but Lando still wanted to open his chat with him.
He stared at Oscar’s last messages, sent last night during their quietest moment. On a night when neither of them could have expected the day to end this way—with one of them almost disappearing from a dream and the other living a nightmare.
Lando kept staring at the chat until he had to blink several times to clear the fog from his eyes.
Oscar:
Go to sleep, sleepyhead
I’m not coming to rescue you if you miss the drivers’ parade tomorrow
Lando:
wow
ruthless
absolutely heartbroken💔💔
Oscar:
🤙
I’m not giving you an easy time at the start tomorrow
Lando:
zak is gonna have a heart attack if he reads this lmao
bring it on, mate. sleep well 😉xx
Oscar certainly hadn’t given Lando an easy time.
Lando pressed his phone to his chest, right over his heart, and let himself be overwhelmed by the feeling of how much he was missing Oscar—how much he wanted him there, by his side, sharing their usual teases and laughter. Fuck. Lando was counting down the minutes until the team released him so he could rush to the hospital. Counting down the minutes so he could hold nothing back at the end of the day.
He needed to be strong.
Suddenly, his phone started vibrating with notifications of some messages, and Lando pulled it away from his chest. For the first time since the race, he couldn’t help but form a tiny, broken smile. They were messages from his friends among the drivers. They all risked their lives at 300 km/h, but when a crash of that magnitude happened, the rivalries between them always vanished, even on the track.
Lando felt a little guilty for not having paid attention to them on the Media Pen. He was lost.
With a sigh, just as tired as he had been a few hours before, he started reading them.
Charles L.:
Lando, I just spoke with Fred and the FIA.
Breathe. I know exactly what’s going through your head right now. I know what it’s like to stare at that screen and feel like you can’t breathe. Don’t let panic take over, mate.
He’s alive. You’re not alone in this.
A big hug.
Lando’s breath caught slightly. Charles had lost his godfather and his best friend in races, and he understood better than anyone the terror of seeing the person you love in that situation… He truly appreciated every word.
Max V.:
I just saw the replay of Oscar’s impact, mate. It was horrific, but the cockpit held up perfectly. Tom just confirmed in the team chat that he’s awake.
Stay in your room, don’t go out and talk to the press if you don’t want to, fuck them. If anyone pressures you to do interviews, let me know and I’ll talk to Christian or Stefano.
Focus on processing the scare. We’ll talk later.
George R.:
Lando.
We’re all in shock about Oscar, but we just got the medical report and he’s out of danger. Tom told us. What a relief, really.
I know how much Oscar means to you and I know how you get when you keep things to yourself. Don’t just shut yourself away in there.
We can ask the team to let us out through the back door to avoid the cameras. Tell me what you need.
We’re here for you.
Carlos S.:
Muppet, I saw you with the reporters. You looked as pale as a ghost.
Listen, Oscar is fine. It’s over now. It was a terrible scare, but he’s okay.
You will see him.
Stop pacing in your room and drink some water. As soon as the FIA gives us the ‘go-ahead’ to leave the circuit, you’re coming with me in my car and I’ll drop you off at the hospital. I won’t take no for an answer.
Stay strong, mate.
Lando blinked back the tears that had begun to well up in the corners of his eyes and bit back a grin. Having everyone’s support had been what calmed the tides within him in mere seconds—words that made him feel less small and scared, that he hadn’t known he needed as much as breathing. He would have remained lost without them.
Lando regretted not letting his grid mates tell him in person.
None of them were stupid. Sooner or later it was going to happen. They knew, or at least suspected, how Lando truly felt about Oscar… And it didn’t matter that they knew. Really. He didn’t mind. Nothing mattered anymore except wanting to see Oscar again and be by his side.
Lando rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, ready to reply to every message until his thumbs ached.
When he finished, much calmer, the next messages he received weren’t from his friends, but from Zak and Andrea.
Zak Brown:
Lando, race is officially suspended.
Right now, points don’t matter. The only thing that matters is Oscar. I just spoke with the hospital and they’re taking good care of him. Go be with him, buddy.
We’ve got your back here. Call me if you need absolutely anything.
Sending you both all my love 🧡
Andrea Stella:
Lando, Andrea here.
I want to officially release you from all your media and team duties for the rest of the day. Don’t worry about the debrief or the sponsors; the team will handle everything.
Your only priority right now is your well-being and being there for Oscar. Please take a deep breath.
We are all with you.
Lando’s pulse raced to 300 km/h the moment he finished reading them.
“Jesus Christ.” He breathed, almost dizzy.
The subtlety of the messages slapped Lando with reality for a split second.
Neither Zak nor Andrea had mentioned the damage to the car, the costs or the impact on the championship. They had immediately freed Lando because his panic in the garage had been too obvious, too transparent. Lando didn’t stop to consider the implications of his bosses seeing through his mood—something that went far beyond a simple, concerned teammate. At any other point in his career, the idea of having exposed his biggest secret to the McLaren team would have terrified him.
But now, with his chest tight and the image of the crash fresh in his mind, Lando found he couldn’t care less. If the price of being with Oscar was that everyone would find out this way, he would gladly pay it.
Lando didn’t waste any time.
He thought he’d never changed clothes so fast in his life; he scrabbled off his racing suit with clumsy, desperate tugs, tossed his fireproof shoes aside, and changed into his normal clothes with shaking hands: baggy pants, a hoodie and sneakers.
Without even bothering to look in the mirror, Lando ran out of the motorhome, his pulse racing and his nerves on edge.