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Oscar disappears over the break. No social media posts, no blurry photos taken by fans and uploaded on Twitter, and definitely no responses to any texts whatsoever—even in the driver's group chat, which Oscar tends to be fairly active in. Lando doesn't blame him, can respect his teammate's need for privacy—not that that stops him from clogging up their chat with unnecessary texts that aren't even being read.
The last time they had seen each other had been during an emergency team meeting to go over damage control—because, of course, someone had to post the video of Oscar and Carlos fighting. It had been brutal. Lando winces whenever he thinks about it, and the guilt festers even further when he remembers how silent he had been the entire time. Through every disappointed and annoyed comment from the media team, every sharp remark from Zak and Andrea—calling Oscar all kinds of names, barely letting the man explain his own side of the story—Lando had remained silent. What was it Oscar had said again? You never defend me.
Well, he just had to go ahead and prove that in real time, didn't he?
Lando knows he hasn't been the best to Oscar recently, but this in particular is sticking. It's clinging to Lando like a parasite, and it won't leave him alone. He's supposed to be having the time of his life, living it up in Ibiza and getting drunk every night for the next few weeks. But, instead of every shot invigorating him, all they do is serve to make Lando feel worse—the guilt curdling in his stomach along with the alcohol, making his mouth taste sour and ending the night early for him.
The thing is, Lando knows for certain that it wasn't his fault Oscar's race went to shit in Hungary. But, he also knows that it has been his fault before. He knows how the team treats him compared to Oscar, knows that he's their golden boy—as much as he hates that term—and that Twitter isn't exactly wrong when they talk about McLaren clearly favouring him over Oscar. Lando doesn't ask them to do that but, leaning against the railing of yet another yacht, with too much alcohol in his system again, Lando can admit that he doesn't exactly discourage it, either. And why would he? If it's going to benefit him, and if it's going to get him the race win over Oscar—his direct competitor—of course he'll take it.
Maybe that makes Lando a terrible person. No. It definitely makes him a terrible person.
God, Oscar had looked so fucking defeated that night outside the club. His face was bloody and starting to bruise already, and Lando is secure enough in his sexuality to admit that it had looked kind of hot—but the thought had been quick to vanish at the numb and empty look in his teammates eyes. And, god, the things he said about Carlos? About what Carlos had said to Oscar? Lando still seethes when he thinks about it. Carlos, his best friend—his first ever teammate in Formula 1—someone Lando has always looked to when things get tough, had been one of the main reasons for Oscar's despair that night.
Lando is currently ignoring all of Carlos' texts and calls, and he would feel more guilty about it if Oscar wasn't still ignoring Lando's texts and calls. It's a vicious cycle of guilt he finds himself in, at the moment—one that not even alcohol can save him from. Not that that stops him from trying.
He can still remember the first time he had ever met Oscar—properly, as his official teammate—in all his awkward, Australian glory. He'd been so young, so excited to finally have a seat in F1, and there had been a spark in his eyes that Lando had—quietly and cruelly—known would be snuffed out soon enough. He just hadn't realised it would be him that would do it.
Okay, maybe he's being a bit dramatic. Logically, Lando knows he isn't solely responsible for Oscar feeling like shit. It's a combination of him, the team, the media, and fucking Carlos making Oscar feel this way. Logically, he knows this. But logic doesn't tend to hold a permanent place in Lando's brain a lot of the time, so he spends most of his break moping around and wondering if this is it—if this is the breaking point that finally sends Oscar over the edge and into Red Bull's waiting arms.
The mere thought sours Lando's stomach even further, and he finds himself leaning over the railing of the boat as his body attempts to expel all of the drinks he's downed tonight. Lando's just glad this is an exclusive, out of the way party—he really doesn't need photos of him spewing to end up all over Twitter. Though, maybe it would be a good distraction for the people still talking about Oscar and Carlos' fight.
God, Lando wishes he could see Oscar right now. Even if his teammate refused to talk to him and slammed the door in his face, just seeing him and making sure that he's okay would be enough. Lando feels a bit more than pathetic as he spits into the water one last time before turning around and slowly lowering himself to the ground. Max—his Max, not Max Verstappen, who had been glaring at Lando something fierce outside the club that night—is around here somewhere with Lando's phone, ensuring he doesn't do something stupid like try to call Oscar again. He'll find Lando eventually, and the two of them will enact their routine of Max dragging a whiny and teary eyed Lando back to their accommodation as he complains about Oscar and the whole situation. Rinse and repeat.
Maybe he should call his therapist.
Or, maybe he should just do another shot instead.
He ends up cutting his time in Ibiza short. Max looks about as relieved as Lando feels, and is all too happy to get him on a plane and back to Monaco. It doesn't make everything any better, if he's being honest, but it's a little less suffocating. There's no alcohol in his flat, and Lando really doesn't want to risk any photos of him at a club in Monaco getting out right now—his social media team already have a lot to deal with—so he stays sober and mostly locked away in his bedroom. It's another thing to add to the never ending list of just how pathetic Lando Norris is behind closed doors, but he can't find it in himself to give a shit right now.
Lando ends up giving in and texting the driver's group chat to see if anyone knows where Oscar is, adding a bunch of useless emojis to the text to try and come off as more nonchalant than he feels. Clearly, he doesn't succeed, because George texts him personally to tell him that Oscar is fine, but "needs some space at the moment." Really, it's George's polite way of telling him to fuck off, and, contrary to popular belief, Lando does know when to take a hint.
He intends to listen to George, he really does—if Oscar wants space, then Lando will give it to him. It's the least he can do at this point in time. But, as he's winding down on his run one morning, he spots a familiar mop of hair through a cafe window. Lando can't help but freeze, staring through the window as Oscar sits at a table, alone, his focus entirely on the book in his hands.
Even through the glare on the glass Lando could recognise Oscar anywhere—fucking maroon shirt and all—and he just can't help himself. Without thinking about it too much, Lando walks into the cafe. Light chatter fills the air, and Oscar doesn't even look up at the sound of the bell on the door, too engrossed in whatever it is he's reading. Lando takes that moment to absently order a coffee and a small piece of cake—he's still on break, after all—and still finds himself hesitating when he finally has his order in his hands.
Oscar still hasn't noticed him.
Now, Lando could be sensible here—he could turn back around, ask the nice old lady if he can get his things to go instead and just leave. He could heed George's thinly veiled warning to leave Oscar alone and let the man come to him in his own time, when he's ready to talk. But Lando's never been the most patient person, and he's been ready to talk to Oscar since he got into that Uber with George and Max in Hungary. So, against his better judgment, Lando makes his way over to Oscar's table.
Oscar is still intently focused on his book, and the picture he paints is something Lando thinks could be put in a museum. Half eaten croissant and half drunken hot chocolate sitting side by side, forgotten as Oscar's beautiful brown eyes dart across the pages of the book in his hands. He looks peaceful, content—something Lando hasn't seen his teammate look in a very long time—and he's about to ruin that. It's fine. They're in public, the worst Oscar will do is walk away.
"Hey," Lando says, stopping just shy of the table. "This seat taken?"
Oscar seems to freeze on the spot, his head moving up ever so slowly as his eyes finally catch on Lando's. They're blank, purposefully so, his lips are pursed and his jaw is clenched—clearly not happy to be interrupted by Lando, of all people—but all Lando can focus on is the line down Oscar's cheek. It's small, in the grand scheme of things, a thin line just below his eyelid, a few inches at best, that most people wouldn't notice in passing. But Lando isn't most people, and that thin line is more than likely a scar from none other than Carlos Sainz himself. It cuts right through the angry flush on Oscar's face, right through the freckles that Lando has always secretly admired, and it pisses him off to no end that Carlos has left such a permanent mark on Oscar—that Carlos has gotten to touch Oscar there, and not Lando. (Though, he refuses to examine that thought too closely right now, he has more important things to focus on).
"What are you doing here?" Oscar's voice is low and steady in such a deliberate way that it should probably scare Lando. Instead, he takes it as his cue to place his plate and mug down on the table, pulling the chair out and sitting across from Oscar with a small smile.
"Well," Lando says, taking a small sip of his coffee. "In case you forgot, I live here."
His teammate looks far from amused as he closes his book with more force than necessary, almost slamming it down onto the table. Damn, maybe Lando should've listened to George. "I thought you were in Ibiza."
Lando shrugs. "Left early. It got a bit boring, honestly."
"Ibiza got boring?" Oscar repeats with the most deadpan look on his face. Lando's squirms a little in his seat as he nods, feeling slightly scrutinised under Oscar's gaze. "I don't have time for this, Lando," Oscar eventually says with a put out sigh as he gets to his feet. "Goodbye."
Lando's not exactly proud of the way he immediately reaches out and grabs Oscar's wrist, forcing the man to freeze in place, but he's desperate, okay? The look Oscar levels at him is even worse than before, so Lando lets go as quickly as possible while also scrambling to his feet. "Wait, Oscar—just. I wanna apologise, please."
Oscar still looks like he's about to walk away at any moment, and Lando wouldn't blame him, but he still tries to give the man his most pleading look—anything to get him to just listen, even for a second. Lando doesn't really know if he's doing a good job or not, but Oscar must see something there to get him to stay, because he sits back down with another sigh.
Lando follows suit, and he's given the most expectant look as he situates himself back across from Oscar. "Well? What exactly are you sorry for?"
And, well, it's not like Lando can just say everything—even though that's what is going through his head at the moment. He knows that not everything is his fault, that he isn't the only reason Oscar's been having a shit go of it, but it's hard to not think that way when Oscar's face from that night—bruised and defeated—has been on replay in his mind for the past two weeks. "I'm sorry for yelling at you that night in Hungary, and I'm sorry that I've been such a shit teammate."
This seems to properly capture Oscar's attention, the man's brow furrowing as he shakes his head a little. "Lando, you aren't a shit teammate."
"Doesn't mean I've been a particularly good one either," he mutters, self deprecation bleeding into his tone. Oscar opens his mouth to speak again, but Lando continues on. "No, stop—don't. Just let me speak. Look, you were right, okay? I never defend you when it comes to the team, and I don't know if that's like a conscious choice or not, but it's shit for you either way. You deserve a teammate that you can count on—even when things get hard and we're fighting for wins. You should be able to know that I'll defend you when it comes to the media, or other drivers, but especially when it comes to the team. And I'm sorry that I haven't been that for you—that you feel more comfortable talking to fucking Max Verstappen over me. I'm just—I'm sorry."
Oscar is quiet for a long while, seemingly studying Lando in a way that makes him want to squirm. At least he doesn't look like he's about to commit a murder anymore, so, small mercies. Eventually, Oscar leans back in his seat a little, his shoulders relaxing. "Thank you, I appreciate it."
"And, for what it's worth, I'm also sorry about not sticking up for you to the team about Carlos," Lando adds, offering up a self-deprecating smile. "I mean, starting a fight probably wasn't your best idea, but he definitely deserved it, so."
Oscar lets out a scoff at that, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, try telling that to the team."
And, well, yeah. The team are definitely still a problem. Lando can defend and speak up for Oscar all he wants, but it won't really mean anything if the team chooses not to listen. It's fine, though, Lando will just have to make them listen—one way or another, he's not letting Oscar go that easily. "Fuck the team," he says, earning a surprised laugh from Oscar. "No, I'm serious. They can't keep selling this 'Papaya Family' bullshit to the media and treat you like shit behind closed doors, it's fucked up."
"You never cared before," Oscar mutters. He doesn't say it accusingly, just softly, like it's a fact of life he's come to accept. It makes Lando's chest hurt.
"Yeah, well, I was a fucking idiot before," he says, leaning forward a little. "But that's gonna change. I promise."
Lando must look as determined as he feels, because it elicits a small smile and nod from Oscar that he counts as a win. Things aren't perfect, not yet—it's all well and good for Lando to say he'll be better, but he has to prove it. And he will. He has a lot of shit to make up for, but Lando will be damned if he gives up on Oscar this easily after everything they've been through. He'll be the best fucking teammate on the grid with how hard he'll be defending Oscar—no one will see him coming.
And, really, if he wanted to get an early start, maybe his first stop could be Carlos' place.