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The mental stability and physical endurance one must have to be a Formula One driver is something Oscar has always been acutely aware of, and it has never once posed as a problem.
Regulating his emotions had always been such an easy task for him. Despite the harsh titles placed on his image, he was never concerned.
A rivalry between teammates always evoked analysis from fans, critiquing every movement and every expression— exhausting. He’s exhausted from it.
He doesn’t much care what people say about him, about this thing between him and Lando, because what business is it of theirs what happens behind the scenes? On track, it’s clear as day that they’re determined to fight for the title, Oscar just wishes fans would stop reading so much into it.
Speculation was an ever-present undercurrent to every piece of media put out there, every photo, tweet, each piece of promotional content— all hyper-analysed and dissected, solely to figure out Lando and Oscar’s ‘confusing dynamic’.
Do they hate each other? Is it purely an on-track rivalry, or does it extend past race days? Does McLaren really only care for Lando?
It’s maddening. Personal, even— knowledge only the McLaren drivers are obligated to know. It has never been any of their business, and yet they keep pushing for it.
Echoing the way Oscar is pushing for the championship, striving for the title he’d spent his whole life chasing, the same title Lando is chasing, one that they’re fighting each other for.
It’s methodological, the way in which he prepares for a race. He clears his mind, makes sure he won’t be distracted, filled only with the sole determination to win— no matter the cost.
Canada is always a welcome track, a well track for overtaking and often enough eventful. Most of the weekend flies by in a blissful blur, starting the race weekend at a steady P3.
Pulling from the garage, Oscar’s competitiveness surges through him like a wave crashing against rocks— unrelenting with its fierceness.
Lights out, Oscar drops back to P4, Antonelli ahead of him. Graciously, he moves up to lead the race after Max, George and Kimi all pit in succession.
After taking advantage of pit stops, Oscar pulls into the pit lane and comes back out behind Kimi, P7. Equally pushing their way up, Oscar finds Lando 4.7s behind, a head-on fight for the leading position.
Lando closes the gap, the two McLarens are now going wheel to wheel, both fighting to get ahead. Oscar’s determination flares, ruthless in his vigour to maintain position. He’s ahead, work paid off and he’s defending against Lando on the straight until— it all goes so incredibly wrong, so quick he barely has time to realise what’s happened.
The back of his car jolts, and he steals a look behind him, watching uselessly as Lando spins into the middle of the track after colliding with his back wheel, watching as Charles goes straight into the side of the McLaren— debris exploding into the air with a horrific burst of sound.
Oscar’s own car had spun into the gravel, leaving a streak of tyre marks behind him as his car gives up. He doesn’t care about the car, not right now. Not with the red flag deployed and paramedics rushing onto the track. Not with Lando stuck in a car, broken and destroyed in a way that only promises disaster.
It’s instinctive, the way he pulls himself from the car, wrist sore and throbbing from the pull of the wheel, disregarded and unprioritised. It’s Lando he cares about in that moment, not his stupid, sore wrist.
He takes the risk, running onto the track even after the cars had pulled into the paddock. Racing even now, but this time, towards his teammate and not away from him.
The track is a mess, pieces of the McLaren MCL39 scattered about in a splay of disaster, and in the centre of it all, the unmissable neon of Lando’s helmet, motionless and serving as a guide.
Oscar will no doubt receive some sort of chastise for this, risking his own safety and well-being to rush to Lando’s side. In this moment, though, nothing has been clearer to him.
The metal of the car is crushed inward, pushing down against Lando’s unmoving body. Oscar wills his panic to settle, it won’t help. Not now. His hands scramble for some opening, somewhere to aid Lando, and he sees it then— the start of his downfall. In the way Lando’s hands are wedged between a piece of metal, sliced, torn and wrong. Disastrously wrong, in the way his left hand is bent and bloody, in the way it’s limp against the wheel, fingers splayed open like they’d been holding on, forced to let go.
Lando hasn’t moved, not since he came to his side, and he won’t move. Not on this track, not in Oscar’s presence. Maybe not for some time.
The arrival of the medical car is drowned out by the heavy thrum between his skull, ringing with unbridled panic. He can’t feel the hands clutching his shoulders, pulling him away— which is what inevitably draws him out of it. Away from Lando. He’s being dragged away, leaving his teammates' side.
“No, stop—“ He tries, his voice is uncannily small, words falling upon deaf ears. His chest draws up into a suffocating cage, he can’t breathe— he can’t, his lungs won’t— it’s all wrong. His body won’t cooperate. Oscar’s hands won’t stop shaking, his gloves are dust-covered from the gravel, and he can’t see Lando anymore, the car obscured by the corner.
Barely registering the voices around him, Oscar can’t remember how he got back to the garage, someone crouched beside him. “Oscar, you have to breathe, okay?” Someone is speaking, hand wrapped over the expanse of his shoulder. “Feel mine, yeah? Match it,” and his hand is being lifted, pressed flat against the person's chest. He can hardly feel it, the steady rise and fall beneath his fingers. Almost in a haze, he begins to match his breathing to the rhythm, finally able to inhale with a sudden, freeing clarity.
Tom is crouched next to him, huddled in a heap on the floor of his driver's room. His hands have finally stopped shaking. “Lando, is— Lando okay?” Oscar rasps, eyes focused and red-rimmed. Even now, his priorities lie in a place they never have before.
His mechanic's face is solemn, almost unreadable. “He’s been taken to hospital for his injuries, Oscar, I thought you should hear it sooner rather than later—,” He trails off, gauging how best to break the news. “They’re assuming he’ll have to retire from racing. It’s his hands, they won’t get much better.”
Oscar doesn’t hear the rest. Only able to feel his chest cleaving wide open, a newfound hollowness taking root in its wake.
The formal statement comes like a slap to the face, feels like a sword catching in the gaping hole in his chest, urging it wider— threatening to swallow him whole.
Lando has now been forced to end his career in Formula One due to irreversible injuries, ones that deem him incapable of driving. He won’t be coming back. Ever.
The driver he’d been looking up to his entire life, spent years liking every post as they came, admiring him from afar. It had been a dream to race alongside him for the first time after signing for McLaren, despite the rivalry that had formed, despite everything, it would’ve been nice to see where they ended up.
Oscar is spiralling when they move their reserve driver up into the seat. He’ll never be Lando, Oscar doesn’t even congratulate him on the spot. Because he didn’t earn it, and it should be Lando. Lando should be racing alongside him in Austria, battling him for the championship, up on the podium with him. Fighting for the title he had been waiting his whole life to achieve, now impossible by means far from his control.
It’s so irrevocably wrong. Oscar doesn’t know what to do with himself, because nothing about Austria feels right. All he sees in that second McLaren is that horrible, persistent image of the cockpit crushed inward, bits of metal laid upon the track in a ring of disaster, Lando’s hands crushed beneath the frame— ruining his career and keeping him from doing what he loved.
Oscar refuses to talk to the media about Lando’s situation. It’s probably not sending the best message to the fans, no doubt assuming he either doesn’t care or can’t be bothered. But it’s the opposite, he cares too much, so much so that he feels like he’s drowning in it. Drowning, and the only person who could save him will never be here, never join him on the track again.
Meetings feel bare without Lando, everything feels suddenly empty and hollow in his absence. Carlos has been a solid presence beside him through it all, always giving Oscar that look one might give a ticking bomb, waiting for it to go off. He hates it, the way everyone can tell how deeply affected he is by the loss of his teammate.
The shock of it all had been the worst, because even Oscar hadn’t known he cared about Lando quite this badly, not until he lost him.
He must look so strange, standing on the podium, trophy in his hand, showing no hint of excitement. In a bittersweet moment, Oscar’s glad for the ‘iceman’ agenda pushed upon him, because people are unsuspecting— completely oblivious to the real reason he hadn’t celebrated.
It stays that way until Hungary, racing along the track when all he really feels like is a spectator, watching his life unravel before his eyes— helpless to stop it. Nothing feels normal, and he can’t find a way to change that.
The break is a welcome reprieve, though he doesn’t think an uninterrupted two weeks with his mind will turn out beneficial. His family are excited to see him, if only for a short time. Oscar thinks he needs it, then, connection— care. But most of all he needs understanding.
His mother has always been able to read him, she doesn’t press the concern about Lando or his crash, doesn’t demand a statement or any information about the day it happened. Oscar has never been more thankful.
His sister, though, seems to understand in ways he doesn’t, because she gives him a small, sad smile when she notices the faraway look in his eyes. Like some part of him had been stripped away in turn with the debris. It’s startling, and threatens to uproot everything he knows. And he still, doesn’t know why.
The Dutch Grand Prix is better, he thinks, because of the break. He’s not as empty, but it still feels wrong, knowing the flash of papaya in his rear view isn’t him. Someone else racing in his place. The team have finally given up asking Oscar to put out a message, and have made it known that he won’t talk about the crash in any interviews. Refuses to. Because it would undo all of his progress, would unravel him like thread and send him spiralling.
The win in the Netherlands feels shallow and meaningless, the podium in Italy is where it happens, the fall. He doesn’t get another podium until Qatar, after suffering a double disqualification in Las Vegas and countless failures. He doesn’t care.
By Abu Dhabi, Oscar has never needed the winter break quite as badly as he does now. He’s so sick of driving without his rival, his teammate. His friend.
Miraculously, he wins it even then. Oscar wins in Abu Dhabi, and wins the championship. It’s not right. Undeserved and harrowing, it’s not fair. His first championship, the World Championship title he’s been chasing since he was a child.
Nobody talks to him in the driver's room, and he’s so thankful. But the podium is like rubbing salt in the wound.
Oscar’s eyes, while focused on the camera ahead, aren’t capable of really seeing. He feels like a shell, poised on the podium, distant— he’s not even here. Not at the track, not even holding the trophy in his hands. Because that’s not him. His mind has drifted so far away he doesn’t feel real in this moment. Oscar can’t hear the roar of the crowd, can’t see the evidence of his win, nor feel the champagne coating his skin like a blanket of guilt. All he can think of is Lando, would he be watching, even now? Mourning the loss of his career, watching Oscar take what could’ve— should’ve been his instead?
And in that moment, Oscar realises he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want the trophy tainted by the losses of his teammate, a trophy handed to him on a silver platter. He hadn’t wanted to win it this way, at the expense of Lando’s career. Nobody would ever want that.
It should be him on this top step, smiling in that way Oscar adores, his childhood dream finally his. Not Oscars. The trophy feels like fire, threatening to burn his hands and his very being, but he holds it nonetheless. Lets the crowd cheer for his stolen victory, praising him for some amazing feat— when all he’d really done is benefited from Lando’s forced retirement.
He doesn’t party. Oscar doesn’t continue to celebrate, despite it all. Because the rapidly widening ravine in his chest is threatening to rip him apart, altering him in an irreversible way. He doesn’t even know why. He’s never had this level of care for Lando, has never felt this way about anyone, and it’s worrying.
It’s Mark, who is the first to really mention it, though. His mentor corners him in his driver's room, sensing something disastrously wrong with the McLaren driver after the podium. “Oscar, you need to talk to someone,” He opts for a soft tone, yet still stern. “Come on, mate, this isn’t healthy,”
There’s a hand on his shoulder, gentle, and for once he wants to open up about it. Wants to tell someone, and Mark has always been such a safe person for him throughout his career, like a second father in a way.
Sucking in a breath through his trembling bottom lip, he doesn’t meet his mentor's eyes. “It’s Lando, obviously,” He breathes, “I can’t stop thinking about it— I just.. it doesn’t feel the same anymore, without him,” Oscar adds with an almost imperceptible quietness.
Mark looses a breath, rubbing the hand across Oscar’s shaking frame in a soothing gesture. “What doesn’t feel the same, Oscar?”
“I dunno, everything, nothing about racing feels right now— with him gone, it’s not fair,” Oscar’s fully shaking now, trembling underneath Mark’s palm, who tightens it in an attempt to be grounding.
“You could always visit him, I think that’d help,”
Mark is his mentor for a reason, because Oscar’s entire world lights up.
Winter break has never been this welcoming for Oscar, but it’s unlike the rest. Oscar doesn’t fly home to his Monaco apartment, nor Australia to see his family. Because he flies to London like he’s following an invisible thread, drawn to it in an inexplicable way. It may very well be a stupid, reckless decision, but he needs to try. He can’t keep living like this, without this.
Suitcase clanking behind him, Oscar feels something rising inside him, something he can’t shake. The apartment complex is tall and luxurious, he had remembered Lando mentioning buying an apartment here a while back, and he’d returned to London after his injury.
The lady at reception knows who he is, and doesn’t seem surprised when Oscar asks for Lando’s floor number.
Riding the elevator feels like anticipation, nerve-wracking. Raising his fist, he raps against the door— half expecting it to remain closed, a physical barrier between them.
But it unlocks, and Oscar swallows the lump in his throat as he pushes it open. Immediately, he realises nobody is actually in the hallway.
Walking through the apartment feels like trudging through mud, and he pushes through it. The lounge room is easy to find, the floor-to-roof windows evidence enough, and there he is.
Lando is sitting on the couch, all familiar— brown curls, tanned skin, pretty blue eyes. Oscar sees it, the ruined skin of Lando’s left hand, all marred with evidence.
The older turns to face him, features cracking with what seems like sadness. “Oscar,” He breathes, “You’re here,”
Oscar’s chest tightens, frozen in place. “I’m sorry,” His fists clench, eyebrows drawing tight, “I’m so sorry Lando,” A rasp, stepping closer to his teammate. His teammate. Even here, even now, after everything that’s happened. Lando will never stop being his teammate.
“I should’ve come sooner, I should’ve given you more room on the track, if I did then maybe—“ Oscar rambles, words are cut short by a soft sigh, Lando is looking at him with concern.
“Oscar, it’s been half a year. Don’t stress yourself with the ‘ifs’, it wasn’t your fault,” Lando affirms, looking so delicate where he sits. Oscar steps forward, gently sitting beside him on the couch. “You should be enjoying your break, why are you here?”
His voice isn’t accusing, nor dismissive, just mildly confused. Oscar swallows, “Lando.. it’s— I can’t stop, it’s not right without you on track, I can’t stop thinking about it,” He breathes, averting his gaze. “I haven’t been myself since it happened,”
It’s a stark contrast, the windows pouring sunlight in, shrouding their solemn conversation in light. “McLaren didn’t make you speak about it?” Lando asks, eyebrow raised.
“No I refused to, I couldn’t talk about it. About you,” Oscar murmurs, voice quiet and broken.
There’s a moment of clarity between them, like this is a conversation long overdue. He really tries not to look at Lando’s hand, to not see the evidence laid bare before him, etched into his skin as a permanent reminder of his career ripped from him.
Lando senses everything unsaid, “It’s my left hand, Osc. My nerves are damaged, I can’t.. I can’t flex my fingers, I can’t hold things with it. I broke my right hand, but it’s healed pretty well,” The revelation has Oscar’s face cracking, his chest tightening painfully.
“How do you.. How have you been handling things, here, with the injuries?” Oscar prompts, finally letting his eyes wander across the ruined skin of Lando’s hand. Trailing along the scarred lines.
Lando hums, like he’s in thought, “Mostly my family, but I’ve hired a caretaker at one point,” The thought uproots something painful, knowing Lando needed aid to function. And he was six months late.
“Let me,” Oscar swallows, “Let me help you, please?” He adds, with an expression pleading and serious. He wants to be here for Lando, wants to do this for him, because he should’ve been here for him sooner.
The older looks momentarily stunned, eyes wide with something akin to gratitude. “Oscar, you don’t have to— you can’t spend your break taking care of me,” Lando firms, like he can’t accept it, like it’s too much to ask for.
“I want to, I should’ve a long time ago,” Oscar rasps, and something shifts between them. Mutual understanding tied between them now like a physical thing, binding them together. “Let me do this for you,”
Lando’s smile wobbles slightly, lip trembling. “Okay,” He nods, “Thank you, Oscar,”
It doesn’t take long for Oscar to adapt, because he’s eager. He needs to be here for Lando, wants it more than anything. And he doesn’t even realise that with each passing moment, the shallow broken pit inside of him is slowly mending itself— stitching together now that they’re together.
Lando really, really, can’t use his fingers. He demonstrates by trying to hold the remote, but his fingers won’t even curl— can’t wrap around the sleek black device. Oscar’s heart clenches with panic, threatening to unravel his progress. Lando can’t use his left hand, all because of the crash.
But he’s here, now, and he helps. Brings Lando food, water, anything he wants. Despite Lando’s insistence that Oscar doesn’t dote over him, it continues like that well up until nightfall, casting the apartment in a dark light, moon illuminating the streets beneath them, they sit on the couch.
“I’ll stay until you go to sleep, then I’ll— I guess I’ll find a hotel, I’ll be back in the morning,” Oscar provides a gentle smile, Lando’s eyes sparkle with gratitude and something else.
“Oscar, I really do appreciate this, more than you can know,” He rasps, “You can stay in the guest room, if you.. want,”
Oscar makes the bed for him, helps him change into a fresh set of pyjamas, because his broken wrist is still in recovery. Lando doesn’t protest, just watches him with that same look. “Okay, just call out to me if you need something, anything Lando, alright?”
Lando nods from where he’s sat in the bed, “Okay, yeah. Thank you again Osc, it means everything to me,”
Oscar stays for three weeks, Lando’s wrist is better, and he can finally use one of his hands to return to somewhat normalcy, though he still needs help given his permanently unusable wrist.
Between all of it, they’d returned to normal. Bantering while helping Lando, Oscar notices a shift. He isn’t spiralling, and he hasn’t been for a while. If anything, he feels different— genuinely happy in a way he hasn’t been for a long time now, and he feels close to Lando in an inexplicable way.
The realisation of what changed between them threatens to send him unravelling again, though. Lando knows something is up before he even asks, can see the way Oscar is more standoffish than usual— a distant look in his eyes.
Sitting side by side on the couch, Lando decides to break the tension. “Oscar, is something the matter?” He tries, gentle.
The younger shifts where he sits, eyes averted and refusing to meet his own. “I’m okay,” It’s a lie, and he knows Lando can tell.
A heartbeat later, Lando’s expression saddens. “You can talk to me, you know that, right?”
But he can’t. Not about this, not about any of this. Because it could very well be what breaks him all over again— feeling very much like ice that isn’t fully solidified in the middle. Hollow in a way that isn’t mended, and it’s worse, he thinks, because he knows how to mend himself. How to fill that void deep inside him, reckons he’s known all this time— refused to face it.
Lando breathes out a sigh, scooting closer, “Oscar,” It’s so soft, so genuine, that Oscar thinks he knows, too. Might’ve known all this time as well. “Please, say it,” Lando pleads.
Oscar’s lip wobbles, and he turns his head away. He can’t do it, he feels so vulnerable, like he’s been wedged open and Lando is peering inside, every emotion splayed out before him. His jaw is shaking, trembling in time with his lip. “I can’t,” He sobs, and he feels Lando’s leg brush against his own, so he turns to look at him.
Lando’s smile is so full of adoration, so sincere, his chest feels like it may collapse. Lando’s eyes are sparkling and wide in a way he’s never seen, and he watches his lip betray him. “I know, Oscar, it’s okay. I know,” He breathes, reaching out and joining their hands together. Lando’s fingers hang uselessly where their palms meet, unable to hold the man he loves, like he so desperately wants. Oscar clasps their hands together, such a small gesture, but to Lando— it means the world. Tears brim Lando’s lashline, and his own lip begins to tremble out of the smile.
“I love you,” Oscar sobs, watching Lando try so hard to hold him back, fingers uncooperative. “I think I always have, and I’m sorry, that I didn’t know sooner,” Fresh, fat tears stream down his cheek, and Lando uses his able hand to wipe them.
“Please don’t cry, you’ll make me,” Lando laughs, but it’s spluttered— tear tracks matching Oscar’s. “Osc, please, I love you too, it’s okay,” He breathes.
When Oscar presses forward and joins their lips together, it’s like that final puzzle piece falling into place. Its liberation, the emptiness inside him now replaced, filled to the brim with love. His love for Lando. This is what he had needed all along, not Lando’s presence on the track, but Lando himself.
──────── ☀️ ────────
“Then the sun begins to rise, we made it through the darkest night,
You found me,”