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Oscar should know how to deal with this.
Well, he does, actually, he has been doing it ever since his father took him to his first RC competition and everything was too damn loud over there, it’s only that he doesn’t know why nothing that normally works is working right now, well, he actually does, it’s just that…
Everything is shit right now.
Something simply felt off the moment he opened his eyes and while it wasn’t really the first time it happened, he just hated knowing he would have to deal with on top of FP3 and qualifying. He’s an adult, however, he knows how to deal with all of it, so despite his headache and everything, he starts his day and paints himself as in control of everything by the time he meets Artturi.
The paddock is the same it is any other weekend, packed with media, other teams and fans that want to get a photo or autograph. Everything is normal, but that same layer of normality is what makes it worse for him because his own damn mind can’t just be normal.
He feels on edge while they get ready, during the debrief, and when he walks inside the garage, it all is ten times worse. He’s more than used to the loudness of the place, motorsport is not a quiet sport, but the weirdness of the day make him feel that everything is too loud.
Oscar has never been more relieved than the moment he pushes the earphones inside his ears and the balaclava and helmet reduce everything it becomes s a bit more manageable.
FP3 is uneventful. Oscar is glad, of course, he is in no condition to deal with something more complex, so he doesn’t even bother with complaining about the P5. He manages to keep himself under the same diguise of being calm an in control to go through his media duties, but the moment that’s done, he’s back on his driver room, those noise-cancelling earphones on as he lies on the small sofa.
He can do this, just a couple of hours more and it will be fine.
“Alright, Oscar, we will only get one shot.”
Tom doesn’t hear the pained whine that escapes his lips, the radio is working perfectly fine, there’s not even interference that makes it sound weird, but it still feels so loud, the voice simply bounces around his head until it crashes somewhere and leaves it throbbing.
“Copy that.”
Qualifying is trickier. He goes through Q1 and Q2 easily, but Q3 starts with issues since the first moment. They don’t manage to leave first, meaning they have three more cars in front, ready to get in the way when they try to get a quick lap as it normally happens when they try. One Haas spins and causes a red flag, extending the time Oscar is forced to sit there with so many things happening around him. They fail yet again to leave first and from there, they only have one chance.
Oscar’s head is throbbing.
The stress adds itself on top of what he is feeling. He can already feel sweat, that has nothing to do with the heat of the place, beading on his head, his hands warmer than they should be, all clammy and uncomfortable as he grips the steering wheel. His breathing is getting a bit more erratic, short and not deep enough to make him feel he has all the control over it.
Getting impeded by Lewis feels as if someone just flipped the middle finger on his face.
It’s a truly titanic effort to keep his head where it needs to be, to focus and avoid driving nose first into the wall. He would be kicked out of they believed he is incapable of controlling himself, but it’s just… so hard right now.
“That’s P4, a good lap. Good job, Oscar.”
He doesn’t answer, can’t, really and he knows later on, on a million clips and forums, fans will be discussing how unhappy he was about missing P3 for so little. Some will say poor thing, he’s stressed, other will be arguing he is rude and can’t even be bothered with replaying. Oscar doesn’t care, not really.
He just wants to get out.
The mess back at the pit lane is somehow worse. Once the noise and vibration of the motor dies down, he’s left with the muffled excitement that comes from outside, fans that scream their heads off at Charles’ pole, media running around trying to get the best pictures, teams celebrating and the rest of drivers wanting to leave.
It’s a titanic effort to look normal while getting out of his car, accepting Lewis’ pat on the back and moving to congratulate Charles for the pole, George for the P2 and Lando for the P3. It’s a quick thing, like it normally is, his hand only holds Lando’s for a couple of seconds, but to his horror, Lando doesn’t let go.
Unlike Oscar, he has already removed his helmet and balaclava, so Oscar can see his face filling with that a spark of concern in all its beautiful glory. It’s touching, still hard to believe Lando can understand him that well, but he really is in no condition to deal with any of this anymore, he just wants to leave.
So he does, squeezing Lando’s hand one last time before pulling away towards the scale. He knows Lando can’t follow, he needs to go for the interviews and everything and by the time they meet again, Oscar will be fine. He’s sure.
So he walks, away from the cameras and people that may look at him and decide to intervene, he wants to be away from the world but since that’s not possible, away from the busiest part will be enough. People looking at him with a small hint of bewilderment because he’s still wearing the helmet doesn’t help, but he can’t even think about removing it, it’s a small and almost insignificant barrier against the loudness of the world, so he’s going to keep him.
His driver room, however, is not the safe place he thought would be while heading there.
He removes his helmet and balaclava, finally, blocking noise and all, they’re adding their own issue and are starting to feel too much and almost tosses them aside to finally let his body fall on the small sofa he has there. Breathing is becoming a bit more challenging, it feels as if someone is pressing against his chest to limit how much his lungs can expand. His head is throbbing even more and everything feels too fucking much.
The motorhome is almost empty at this time yet the small noises that manage to slip inside feel like someone is doing it right next to his ear. A chair scrapping against the floor, a door opening and closing, someone going down the stairs, the distant noise of the world that is still moving, it’s too much.
Oscar is holding his head before he can think much about it, trying to find a way to quiet down everything enough he doesn’t allow the panic to reach uncontrollable levels, but even that is difficult. Everything that normally works on keeping him at bay fails simply because he’s way over it and his panicking mind can’t focus on what he needs to do once he’s over that limit because it is still trying to focus on preventing it.
His eyes sting, throat feeling tight, muscles starting to ache for how tense they are, the suit this suffocating thing he can’t even pull down. He will overheat, he will die in here in such a pathetic way he—
“Oscar?”
Blood is still rushing all over his body creating this unbearable noise when the additional thing registers, the concerned voice making him open his eyes to find Lando is there, not at the door, but there, staring down at him with the same concerned expression.
Under normal circumstances, he would try to find what to do, what to say, but it’s useless.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Lando suddenly says, crouching down in front of him, keeping himself from getting too close. “You’re okay, yeah?”
Oscar wants to listen, needs to listen, but the voice barely makes a dent in his already spiraling mind.
“Come on, breathe with me,” he says, Oscar would dare to say he wishes he could reach for him, but he doesn’t and he’s grateful for it. “Let’s do it together.”
Lando could easily walk out to find someone who can deal with it, maybe even let him settle down on his own, but he doesn’t, he stays there, in that uncomfortable position, counting while breathing slowly, long intakes of breath and long sighs. It doesn’t do much at first, but focusing on Lando’s voice and his instructions little by little manage to capture his attention and his mind stops listening and feeling everything around him until he can follow his instruction.
“That’s good,” he says softly, that genuine and beautiful smile appearing on his face. “You’re safe here, it’s only both.”
It’s not that he’s proud to be bothering Lando with this, but it does feel nice, a different kind of comfort he decides it outweighs the awkwardness.
“I-I… I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice sounds all weird, chest still tight. “I didn’t…”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Lando interrupts as gently as he can. “Shit happens sometimes.”
Oscar can’t help but wonder if Lando has gone through the same, it worries him to think maybe he had gone through it while Oscar was completely oblivious across the room, but he’s too excited to follow the thought.
“Thank you, Lan…” he whispers. “I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will,” he says, standing up to reach for the close there, rummeaging through the dirty clothes until he finds a clean one along with some clean jeans. “Come, let’s get you out of there.”
Embarrassment fills his body, the remnants of the what he experienced still weighing him down, but then again, he’s still exhausted and he will probably trip and break his skull against some corner if he does on his own, so, despite the embarrassment, he sighs in defeat.
Lando helps him out of the knee pads, how he walked with them, he has no idea, peels the gloves off his hands and helps him to pull out his arms out of the suit. Oscar still tries not to think too much about it when he pushes it down the rest of the way and he steps out of it on wobbly legs.
“I would be on a full pajama set, but this will have to do for now.”
For the first time in what has felt like hours, Oscar chuckles weakly. “Yeah, will have to do it for now.”
His teammate looks ridiculously proud once Oscar is more or less presentable and dressed in clean clothes, the suit and everything a pile of things pressed on the corner. It makes Oscar stomach and chest flutter weirdly, but that will have to wait up until he has the mental ability to do so.
“Thank you,” he repeats, letting his body fall back on the sofa. “You… you really helped me, with everything.”
“You didn’t look fine when you left,” he says, Oscar winces at thinking how that will be for the outside world. “Luckily, P3 doesn’t get all the attention.”
“You should be out there,” he chuckles weakly. “Media and all, you know.”
“Yeah, you should skip it, though, it’s pretty damn loud out there.”
Oscar’s heart flutters again. “It’s fine.”
Lando studies him with arms crossed over his chest, he still has his suit around his hips and it will look weird when he comes out all changed and looking as if he hadn’t reached Q3 or something, but he can’t bring himself to care about it when Lando’s eyes are that tender and worried.
“You’re not going.”
“Lando—”
“That’s final,” he says, walking again to get him a glass of water he all but shoves in his hands. “You rest here.”
“I can’t just stay here,” Oscar argues. “Come on, I’ll be fine, won’t let it happend again and—”
“You don’t have to deal with it on your own, you know?” he interrupts. “Like, I get it, and because I do, I know you have to stay here.”
It feels irresponsible, something that deserves a good scolding, maybe, but… it simply feels nice.
“Lando…”
“Will finish up quickly and come back,” he says, as if he hasn’t said anything. “I know a place that sells good chocolate, so maybe we can head there once we’re done here.”
Oscar sighs, feeling his sore muscles still complaining about what just happened and everything, as if wanting to argue that Lando is right and he doesn’t need to go through it alone so he ends up panicking and crying in the corner.
Wouldn’t it be dumb to reject him?
“Alright.”