Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Mark,
I’m sorry.
Please don’t stop mentoring. You were the best mentor I could’ve ever had. I’m sorry that I failed you. All I can say is thank you. Thank you for being the closest thing to a father I ever had.
I think I love you,
Oscar

Dear Mum,
I’m sorry.
I love you so much. It’s gotten too much. I just couldn’t escape.
After I won any championship you’d send me tim-tams. Dark chocolate ones. They’re my favourite. I don’t know if you know but, these kept me going. Even when I wasn’t allowed to eat them. They were a promise. A promise of love, of a home. I love you, Mum.
This wasn’t your fault. Please believe me. I also want you to please believe that it’s easier this way. I wasn't enough. And I’m sorry. I still love you.
You are better off without me.
All my love,
Oscar

Dear Hattie,
I’m sorry.
Thank you. Thank you for bringing me out of the darkness. Your jokes, laughs and ridiculous schemes never fail to make me laugh. Remember when you said we should buy blow up dinosaurs and stick them to the roof? Yeah, that was really fun. Even if we did get caught. I’d do it all again, one hundred times over.
Love you so much Hat’s,
Oscar

Dear Edie,
I’m sorry.
You were never forgotten to me. I saw you, everyday. You always give 100% and that’s something that I think is so incredible. You are going to do great things Edie. So many things. I don’t know what, but you will be an amazing woman.
Always seen and lots of love,
Oscar

Dear Mae,
I’m sorry.
Please finish school. I know you want to become a tattoo artist, and you will. But please finish high school. You know, if I ever won a race I would’ve gotten a tattoo. Nothing huge, just a small nod to success. And I would’ve let you do it. Experience be damned. I would trust you with my life, Mae mae.
Exuberant amounts of love,
Oscar

Dear Logan,
I’m sorry.
Do it for me. Achieve our dream. Become a world champion. I won’t be able to fight you, but Zhou will. Fight hard, and never ever ever give up. Just because I did doesn’t mean you do too. I’m sorry I can’t fight you for pole or push you off the track. I wish we had more time.
Lots of love,
Oscar

Dear Dad,
I’m sorry.
Maybe you were right.
I still love you,
Oscar

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Oscar thinks, the best way to hide things is to just avoid. Avoid everyone who could care. Avoid the questioning stares. Avoid the concerned calls. Avoid the life that could’ve been. Avoid the sweat pooling as he walks into the paddock in 30-degree heat. From the day he joined the Alpine academy he wasn’t as ’fine’ as he insisted to his mum, sisters, and his friends. Joining Alpine, he thought, was a golden opportunity. That was until the near constant abuse, the contract fuck-ups, and subsequent hate thrust him into a hole so deep he could no longer see the light. If it ever existed. 

He started small. A tiny cut that would heal in a few weeks. But if you continue without letting yourself heal, the scars start to form. Permanent, irreversible, a constant reminder that Oscar was nothing for than a waste of space, disappointment, and not worthing of the niceties such as food and drink. Oscar doesn’t have an ED, really. He just gaslights himself into believing he’s not hungry or maybe that he should just wait a few hours, make the portions smaller. Little things, or so he convinces himself. This is what Alpine taught him.

Oscar is just about to offer some mechanics a Tim-Tam when, 

“God Piastri, how many of those Tim-Tams have you had today?”

“Yeah you’ll weigh half the car by the end of the day if you keep that up, dude.”

Oscar pauses, about to pull a second Tim-Tam out of the packet. They’re dark chocolate, his favourite. 

“Oh yeah once someone tells you off you’ll just stop, huh?”

“Weak ass, how do you expect to get a seat when you’re a people pleaser?” 

“I, ummm, uhh,” Oscar stutters . He was used to this sort of thing from the board, strategists, and Otmar, but from a couple of mechanics? This was new. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages to eventually articulate. 

“Sure you are, boy” one of the mechanics says, spitting on Oscar’s sneaker. The mechanic gestures to his mates to go, as if saying this guy isn’t even worth our time. As they are walking away one of them yells,

“Make sure to do some sim work today, otherwise Otmar will have your head!” They all cackle, not knowing how much that statement terrified the poor aussie. 

“Okay,“ Oscar whispers even though no-one can hear him.

“Pathetic.” “Rude.” “Ugly.” “Untalented.” “Disgusting.” “Fucking worthless.” “People pleaser.” 

These thoughts follow Oscar around the paddock as he disposes of the Tim-Tams in a bin close to Ferrari. Just as he had almost finished emptying the contents of the package a hand landed on his shoulder. Flashes of pain brought by the twisted hand, bruises, cuts and-

“Ah! Are those the biscuits that Danny is always talking about?” A soft voice asks from behind Oscar. But he’s too frozen to answer, muscles tensed, and hairs raised, waiting for the inevitable. Oscar is confused because it never comes..? 

“Are you ok?” the voice asks as the hands turn him around, body tense and taught. But that voice sounds familiar to Oscar and, oh! It’s Charles Leclerc. Oscar’s mind goes into overdrive, trying to process that Charles Leclerc, the Charles Leclerc!! Was maybe, possibly talking to him, like-

“-eed me to call someone for you?”

Shit, Oscar thinks, he was talking to me .

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he manages to mumble. Oscar can’t see it but Charles’s face displays great concern for the younger. “That’s okay,” he says gently. “I was wondering if I could call someone for you. You seem to be a little lost,” 

“I uhhhhh,” Oscar was just about to respond with a polite nod of thanks but just at that moment he spots Otmar stomping toward him, looking downright furious. 

“Iactuallyhavetogosososorry,” Oscar manages whilst running back towards the Alpine garage, abandoning his Tim-Tams. Charles is left wondering. Maybe he was too overbearing? His friends often tell him he has strong maternal instincts. That could be why the poor kid ran away. Oh well , Charles thinks as he realises he is, yet again, late for a marketing meeting.

Immediately after Oscar returns to the garage, out of breath and dying for water, he jumps into the sim and looks at the many sheets of different configurations the engineers want him to run before quali tomorrow. When he checks his watch the realisation hits that he has maybe 7 or 8 hours before the power will be shut down to the building. Meaning that he has 7 to 8 hours to get all 5 pages of demands done. 

He’s part of the way through a low fuel Quali sim when his stomach cramps painfully, leading him to let go of the steering wheel and clutch his torso in agony. Panting, Oscar tries to remember the last time he ate some food. Well, he had a Tim-Tam around 4 hours ago and there were two slices of toast for lunch yesterday. He had skipped dinner because Otmar wasn’t happy with his sim hours. The hotel he was staying at didn’t do 24 hour room service so he’d basically just go to the hotel at around 3am and conked out, still in the team polo. Pushing his body's need for substance to the side the sim restarts and he goes again for the quali sim.  

“How many hours in the sim today, Oscar?” Otmar demands as he stomps into the sim room. He’d moved on to gather data for Suzuka, as the pages of work told him. 

“Five and a half, sir” Oscar mumbled as he bows his head, abandoning the steering wheel in front of him. 

“Did I tell you to stop?” Otmar growls.

“No Sir. Sorry Sir” Oscar whispers as he returns focus to the sim. Otmar watches for a little while before saying,

“These lap times aren’t looking very impressive Piastri, I would have expect better,”

“They’re not meant to be, sir. Because-,”

“Did I ask you a question?” Otmar spits.

“No Sir,” Oscar says softly, eyes cast downward.

“How do you think you’ll make it to F1 if you can’t even follow simple instructions? You can’t even set okay lap times! That time just then, pathetic! This shit won’t get you anywhere. Fucking worthless from the start. I knew we should not have brought you in here!” The verbal abuse continues, embedding itself into Oscar’s mind. 

People say that if you hear something enough your brain will start to believe it. Well Oscar certainly heard sentiments of hate towards him enough that his brain is believing it. Due to Otmar’s dictator-like way of running Alpine, Oscar certainly heard enough things to believe he would never land a seat in F1.  

The day that Mark contacted him about McLaren he thought he saw light. But it vanished almost as soon as it had appeared, the voices never dormant enough to miss an opportunity to berate and belittle him. Nonetheless, he agreed to enter contract negotiations with McLaren for a possible seat in 2023. 

Mark was trying his best, but everything was just moving too slowly. The abuse is already burying itself so deep within Oscar that he can no longer see. Can’t see any possibility of leaving. It’s destroying him. The longer he stays the worse everything gets. He checked his emails everyday, praying that Mark had managed to sort something out. Yet each day there was nothing. Until…

Hi Oscar,

I hope you’re doing well. 

I’ve finally managed to negotiate with McLaren over some finer details in your contract. They were a bit more finicky to change than I originally thought. That being said, if you agree to sign this contract you would drive for McLaren in 2023 with the possibility for an extension after the summer break. However, I would like you to read the contract(it will be attached as a pdf. file) to see if you would like to change anything. If you are ready McLaren (Zak Brown and Andrea Stella) would like to discuss/sign the contract this arvo at about 3, if that works for you.

Kind regards, 

Mark Webber 

Oscar’s hands shook as he read through the email then the contract. Maybe he was finally getting out? After years of this untamed abuse maybe he would leave? He can’t wait for 3pm to come around. 

The sharp words of his current team principal pierce his skin like bullets. Slicing through his carefully constructed walls like a hot knife through butter. He can feel the tears gathering. Not here he thinks gazing wildly around the very exposed part of the paddock, anywhere but here. Embarrassingly, the tears don’t listen as they glide down his cheeks. His mind screams at him to run, run far away from this mess. And yet his legs are frozen refusing to cooperate. His chest is going to explode. Right here in the middle of the paddock for everyone to see. Knowing the media some keen eyed photographer would have already snapped some pictures that would surely end up on some gossip site and eventually make its way to the mainstream media. Oscar’s so far within his own head, imagining worst case scenarios that he doesn’t even notice when the English yelling stops, being almost immediately replaced with angry French. Unbeknownst to Oscar, this is a very angry Charles Leclerc, absolutely ripping into Otmar Szafnauer. The type of insults one does not recover from were issued during Charles’s rage infused explosion. Whilst Charles was yelling Oscar was running, running so far so fast. He just didn’t want to deal with any of it. He wanted to be gone, forever. The only way that he could see that happening was to run far away. Wait… But why is his vision going blurry, and oh, the world isn’t meant to tilt like that….

Medical Centre

Concerned whispering is the first thing Oscar notices as he comes too. The second thing he notices is the pain. It’s everywhere, his head, his legs, his stomach. The young aussie can’t escape it. The pain, whilst extremely unpleasant was not unmanageable if he just took a few deep breaths. Now whilst dealing with the pain Oscar had been tuning out the whispers and hadn’t realised that the voices were now talking to him. He continues to not realise this until one of the whisperers grabbed his shoulder and his eyes shot open. The harsh fluorescent lights blinding the poor boy.

“Oscar what the hell were you thinking?!” Otmar barked at Oscar, making him jump. Which insinuates a sickening pain from the base of his spine all the way through his ribs, rendering him speechless and gasping for breath. This, however, appeared to anger Otmar even more, Oscar was only saved by a nurse walking in. Wait. A nurse walking in? What. 

Oh.

That’s right. 

The mad dash to get away.

The world not meant to tilt like that…

“Mr. Safnaur, we need to give Mr. Piastri some peace and quiet after this… ordeal,” the nurse says firmly. Disgruntled, Otmar stops his rant about ‘Oscar’s absolute lack of responsibility’. Mumbling something about the ‘incompetence of nurses these days’ he walks out, slamming the door behind him. Oscar winces. 

“Alright,” the nurse says, “we have run a couple of tests after your collapse. You appear to be severely dehydrated and malnourished as well as overworked. If you don’t mind me asking when was the last time you ate a full meal, like a sandwich?” he asks kindly. 

“Oh,” Oscar whispers, surprised by the recent turn of events. He knew he hadn’t been eating enough but Alpine didn’t let him eat much. He was never allowed room service. And the catering provided never made any food for him.

“Probably like, maybe, ummmm,” he stuttered out.

“It’s okay if you don’t know,” the nurse says whilst writing something down. Oscar nods ashamedly, whilst fighting with his fingers. 

“Okay, so you should be ready to go, we’ve given you some extra fluids and nutrients through an IV, which we have now removed. So for the rest of the day I want you to be resting. Which means no sim sessions or further workouts. Stretching would be allowed though. Right, I think that’s it! You’re free to go now. Have a good day and take it easy,” the nurse finished, holding out a clipboard for him to sign. 

After all the paperwork is signed Oscar shakily rises from the uncomfortable medical centre bed and stumbles over to the door, unaware of what’s about to happen. 

He opens the door and thanks the nurse on his way out only to be dragged down the sterile hallways, Otmar’s grip on his wrist borderline painful. Oscar’s face screws up in discomfort as he’s forced to almost sprint out of the centre and into Alpine’s hospitality. The door to The team principal's office door slams shut with the promise of pain. All Oscar can do is wait it out.

Hit after hit rains down on the young aussie, relentlessly. 

“Get the fuck out of my sight you ungreatful bitch ,” Otmar spits at Oscar before promptly throwing him out of his office. 

Oscar stumbles to the ground and checks his watch, wincing at the pain his surely bruised ribs just had to endure. A gasp is drawn out of him when he realises that it’s 2:54pm, just six minutes before he’s meant to be in Zak Brown’s office discussing possible contract signing. Full on panic mode activated, Oscar rushes to grab a jacket without the Alpine logo on it and beelines towards the other end of the paddock because, for some goddamn reason this weekend the McLaren hospitality unit is at the other end of the paddock. Normally they are right next to each other. But not today. 

Black spots cover his vision by the time he’s arrived at the McLaren hospitality unit. The receptionist is unaware of Oscar’s rapidly deteriorating physical state and simply asks for his name and who he’s here to see. Coughing and spluttering, Oscar manages to get out that he’s here to see ‘Mr. Brown’ and ‘Mr. Stella’ for a 3pm appointment all the while apologising profusely for his tardiness. The receptionist is unbothered and simply directs him down a corridor and tells him to know on the door with ‘Team Principal’ painted on it. Oscar nods and proceeds to hesitantly walk down the hallway that he was directed to. Although it can’t really be called walking when he was using the wall to keep himself upright and could barely see as the black spots got larger. Just grit it out, he tells himself as he knocks on the correct door and gets a faint “Come in” .

He opens the door and is greeted by Zak, Andrea, and Mark all looking mildly concerned. Zak and Andrea are sitting behind a large oak desk sitting in comfy looking office chairs. Mark is sitting on the other side of the desk on the same chair. Oscar’s fellow aussie gestures to an empty chair beside him, reminding Oscar that he should go sit down. Slowly he makes his way through the room and over to the spare chair. He’s half-way there when his stomach decides to give him stomach cramps so bad he genuinely falls over. Like a toddler. Just falls on the floor. He also screams. To Oscar this is just a scream but for Zak, Andrea, and Mark this scream will haunt them for years. Seeing the young boy completely incapacitated, writhing and screaming is also not something they are likely to forget anytime soon.

They all jump up to help him. Mark goes straight to Oscar kneeling to the ground to try and understand what’s happening. Zak grabs his phone and makes a call. Andrea grabs the emergency first-aid kit. Mark helps Oscar sit up against a wall. But he’s still screaming. It’s breaking their hearts. Even though Mark helped Oscar to sit up, he can't support his own weight, relying on his manager to prevent him from toppling back onto the floor.

All Oscar can feel is pain. Sharp, undiluted pain. Everywhere. He can’t do it, he needs relief. He wants help. But he’s not allowed to want.

The ambos are finally here and Mark’s panicking, badly. Oscar just dropped and started screaming. He doesn’t know what’s wrong and it’s freaking him out. The paramedic’s are trying to load Oscar onto a stretcher when he just stops. Stops moving. Stops screaming. Somehow that scares Mark more. 

In all the chaos Oscar’s jacket has been discarded and some letters have fallen out. Mark knows it’s private but maybe it’ll help him know what’s wrong with Oscar. So, when no one is looking Makr sweeps the letters into his pocket, planning on reading them at a later point. 

Little did he know he wouldn’t read those letters for a very long time… Maybe if he’d read the letters sooner Oscar would not have gotten so bad. Maybe if he’d read the letter then Oscar might not have ended up in hospital, again. Maybe if Mark had read the letters then Oscar would have seen the light within himself.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic beeps of heart monitors and a respiration pump fill a comically bland hospital room. The hospital cot sits in the middle of the room surrounded by various machines that Oscar was hooked up to. Mark couldn’t look for too long, afraid he would become a blubbering mess. Mark’s thoughts are awry with worst case scenarios: what if Oscar didn’t wake up? The doctors had assured Mark that he would wake up - his body had simply given up due to the lack of sleep, amongst other things. 

The nurses had told Mark that “he’ll be back at it in no time” but he just couldn't believe it without seeing it. And seeing Oscar pale and weak strapped to twenty odd machines meant believing that he was not okay. Mark couldn’t do that. He has to believe that Oscar’s fine, it’s  just heat stroke or something like that. Heat stroke doesn’t mean screaming like you’re dying, a traitorous voice inside his brain tells him. 

“Shut up!” He growled to no one in particular. By god, the nurses must think he’s insane, Mark ponders as he gets up to do something —anything— just to not look at poor, broken, limp Oscar. Just as Mark’s about to leave the room to get a snack, his phone rings. It’s Andrea. Mark sighs, this is the fifth time Andrea has called in the last 45 minutes. Mark hasn’t returned any of them. He supposes he should. Well, the Aussie thinks this'll be fun, as he walks out of the room and down the hall.  

The first thing Oscar notices is the needle. It’s actually an IV drip to keep his fluids up but he doesn’t know that yet. The needle panics him. He tries to breathe through it, just like his mum had told him. But there’s something wrong. Wait. Why can’t he breathe properly? At this realisation Oscar’s eyes bolt open, he blinks rapidly at the fluorescent lights whilst his hands try to find whatever’s blocking his airway. Yet his hands are so slow. 

Why? Why can’t he move his hands? 

A hand reaches out and touches his wrist, right where the IV is. His body jerks away as the hand presses slightly downwards, evoking a sharp stinging pain. A soft “ oh no” can be heard echoing through the room after the hand pulls away from his hand. 

“What’s oh no?” Oscar asks, surprised by his own voice —it’s much rougher than he would’ve expected. 

Looking around the cold, hospital room Oscar’s eyes land on whom he presumes to be a nurse checking on him. She’s got soft mousy brown hair and a dark complexion. She is also currently looking rather apprehensively at the IV that is in his arm. The nurse appears not to have noticed his question.Oscar doesn’t really mind… His brain is already wandering through the events that led to him being here. Here in this room with its cold lighting, metal window frames, with its itchy bed sheets, and paper thin curtains. 

The collapse was embarrassing. 

Oh god what if McLaren don’t sign him. ‘ I’ll be dead if they don’t sign me,’ Oscar thinks. He’ll be dead. Gone, for good. These thoughts swirl around in his head, turning his mind into a hurricane. Turning his mind into the eyewall, thoughts pelting at his built up walls. No , Oscar thinks, he can’t let this destroy him. There’s still a chance, just like Micheal Schumacher) said “You should never ever ever give up, even if there is only the slightest chance.”  

Clearing his throat Oscar asks the nurse a different question,

“When can I get out of here?” She looks away from his wrist and focuses on his face.

“Probably later this evening, if everything goes to plan,” she replies calmly.

“Oh, ummm, that’s good?” Oscar responds but it almost sounds like a question, rather than a statement.

“Hmmmmmm, considering the state in which you came to us in I, personally, would say that’s one of the best case scenarios.”

“Right. And what exactly happened?” Oscar questions.

“Well you experienced extreme stomach cramps due to a lack of nutrition which resulted in you fainting. You are also severely dehydrated. We’ve given you an IV that directly injected nutrients, fluids, and electrolytes into your bloodstream. The only thing stopping you from leaving, currently, is the IV drip still in your arm.” She explains gently.

“Ah, right,” he’d been trying to forget about the massive needle that was painfully poking out of his wrist. 

“Unfortunately,” the nurse starts and Oscar groans. She smiles a little, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly as she continues “the person who put it in was likely in a rush therefore it has not been inserted in the best way possible. It might be quite painful to remove.” the nurse states.

“Fun,” Oscar says sarcastically. She smiles sadly and proceeds to bustle around a small counter near the door. Searching through drawers she picks out some gauze and a small bandage.

“Would you prefer me talk to you through what I’m doing or not?” she asks.

“No thanks,” Oscar replies. She nods in response. 

The nurse gently places some gauze over the painful injection site. The needle is then pulled out agonizingly slowly, making Oscar’s breaths come in short sharp gasps as he fights to not pull away. He knows it’ll only make it worse. Once the needle is finally removed she places it off to the side in a medical hazard bucket that had appeared by Oscar’s bed. The nurse applies pressure to gauze around his wrist for about 3 minutes before removing it. The gauze is being replaced with a small bandage wrapping around his wrist. It hurts. A lot. 

“You handled that like a champ,” she looks genuinely impressed, “a doctor will be with you in the next 40 to 50 minutes to ask some questions then discharge you. If there are any complications press this button on the wall. Have a good day.” She leaves.

Left blinking at the sudden departure of the nurse Oscar turns his attention to the small bedside table. A handful of his possessions had been placed on this table including his phone, lip-balm,hotel card and wait. What. Where was his hoodie? The hoodie that hides them. The hoodie that protects him. Shit, Oscar thinks, that hoodie had the fucking letters.  

At least he wore long sleeves today.

At this point Mark was fed up with Andrea and now Zak. 

“Look he’ll be fine ,” he snapped “he’s probably not eating well but that’ll change. He will be fucking fine.” Mark ended the call. Breathing out through his nose in a large huff he walks back to Oscar’s room. Through the uninviting hallways bustling with practice and precision. Towards the lifeless wards, you’d think it was a morgue. It’s deathly silent except for the steady beep beep of machines echoing within the sterile walls. Knocking quietly on an unassuming door Mark hears a fragile voice whisper “Come in,”. He steps in.

The last 35 minutes had been pure panic for Oscar. He’s only just managed to get his breathing under control when Mark knocks on the door. Oscar knows it’s Mark because he always knocks with three sharp raps. Oscar notices these things, he has to. Wiping the tears on his plain maroon long-sleeve he murmurs a ‘come in’ so quietly the young aussie is sure his manager won’t hear. Or maybe that’s just hope. Mark slowly steps in the room with a palpable air of frustration around him. The older man closes the door quietly. Walking steadily towards Oscar he asks,

“How’re you hangin’ in there son?” Those words are almost enough for the dam to break free. But Oscar holds strong, simply going with an,

“I’ve been better,” plus a reassuring smile turned watery as Oscar stomachs another wave of nausea. 

“Well that’s obvious,” Mark says with a chuckle “Look, I’ve talked to Andrea and Zak and they said they still want to sign you, despite today’s kuffel, if you still want to drive for them in 2023.” 

Straight into business then , Oscar thinks wryly.

“Yep, sounds good to me. Driving for them in 2023, I mean.”

Mark nods approvingly before rummaging through a drawer in Oscar’s bedside table. He pulls out a piece of paper titled “Oscar Piastri To drive for McLaren Formula 1 Racing in 2023’ and pushes the paper towards him with a black ballpoint pen.

“Just there,” he says, guiding Oscar to the bottom of the page. The pen shakes in Oscar’s hand as he scribbles out his signature, finally free. Oscar barely has a moment to dwell on this major life change before Mark snatches the paper out of his hands and folds it to put it in his pocket. Mark murmurs something like, ‘finally’ before a doctor opens the door and steps into the room. 

“Hi I’m Dr. Rosie. I just need to ask you a couple of questions if that’s okay with you, Mr. Piastri?” she says steadily. Oscar nods in response.

“Okay so how many hours of sleep do you think you’ve gotten in the last 5 days?”

Oscar blanks, not much he supposes. Between sim sessions, media, and data analysis he hasn’t had a whole lot of time to sleep.

“Maybe like, 20 hours?” he sounds unsure. Dr. Rosie nods and writes something down, frowning.

“Are there any major stresses in your life right now?”

Oscar freezes. Memories flash through his mind. Cruel laughter seems to echo throughout the room as a feeling of hopelessness floods into his veins. The laughter fades into jeers and torments, picking on every single mistake or misfortune. Oscar inhales sharply and simply shakes his head. Cursing himself for not being able to stand up for himself. 

“Alright, you should be good to go. I just need you to sign saying that you’re happy to leave,” she holds out a clipboard. Oscar signs where he’s told to.

As he and Mark are walking out of the hospital and over to the older aussie’s rental car Oscar asks Mark,

“Have you seen my hoodie?”

“No mate, sorry."

Chapter Text

The winter break is cruel to Oscar in many ways. For one he can’t see his family because Alpine had restricted his finances, requiring him to work for them in the sim just to pay rent and bills. Even though it was technically illegal, he was no longer contracted to them after all. The contract had rolled around on the 31st of December 2022 and it was now the 22nd of January at 7:32am and Oscar was sitting on his bedroom floor. Well you couldn’t really call it a bedroom because it was also his living room and kitchen. But today was the day. The day that he was meant to go to the MTC for the first time. And he didn’t know what to wear. Now Oscar normally doesn’t care what he wears, so long as it covers the scars. Yet today he cared. Because not only did he want to make a good impression on the staff at the MTC but he was also meeting Lando fucking Norris. Y’know, the guy he’s idolised since he was in F4? Yeah. Him. So Oscar was about to go into a panic attack. He has all of 4 long-sleeves that aren’t dirty and a pair of jeans. Are jeans too casual? Breathe, Oscar reminds himself, in and out. An alarm blares through the apartment, the final one. Telling Oscar that if he wasn’t out the door in five minutes he’d be late. 

Ultimately Oscar went with a pair of dark blue jeans and a maroon long-sleeve. Plus a black oversized hoodie, just to be safe. 

Lando’s running late, but what else is new? He’s only just jumped in his McLaren 765LT Spider and it’s 8:52 am, he’s meant to be at McLaren by 9am. 

Lando waltzes through the freshly polished doors of the MTC at 9:01am, fashionably late, as he would later explain to Oscar. 

… The speeding fines totaled to €852. 

The first task McLaren has them do is some ice-breakers with the whole team. It was chaos with over 1,000 people doing the games that were obviously designed for a classroom of 10 year-olds. But Lando thrives in chaos so he was having a blast. Running around with his bingo card trying to find someone who’s not born in the UK. He sees a guy looking a bit lost amongst the chaos, running up to him he asks,

“Hi I’m Lando, were you born in the UK?”

“Oh, uh, hi Lando. I’m Oscar and no, I wasn’t born in the UK” Oscar responds with a small smile. At least Lando thinks it’s a smile, it looks like the corners of his lips just twitched upwards, slightly. Wait. Oscar, that name sounds familiar. Oh! He’s Lando’s new teammate, the rookie. He proceeds to voice all of his thoughts about the ice-breakers to Oscar once he’s realising that he’ll be actually spending time with him and not just give him a nod in the hallway every now and again.

“Okay, so, I know these games aren't for everyone. That’s obvious because well, you aren't enjoying them, I can tell by your face. But I absolutely love these games because I am an extrovert, if you couldn’t tell. So I get like, all of my energy from socialising and being around other humans but only the ones I like. I like you, Osc.” Lando finishes earnestly looking into Oscar's deep brown eyes. 

“Oh,” Oscar murmurs, blinking slowly, “I think I like you too, Lando.” 

An ear splitting grin erupts onto Lando’s face. He claps his hands together like an excited baby before dragging Oscar around to meet the ‘most important people’, “ Greg will always give you a cheese toastie, even when your trainer doesn’t approve,” he insists. Oscar giggles at that. 

Gradually they get to know each other. Their interests, hobbies, movies they like, their favourite places to have a cheat meal. Oscar doesn’t answer when Lando asks about the last one. Lando remembers, he always does. Because it’s important to remember.

Late night sim sessions become Lando’s favourite time of day. It’s just him, Oscar, the sims, and their ridiculously competitive spirits. 

“Oscar, that's not fair !” Lando shouts after one particularly dirty move that sees him thrust into the wall at turn 2. Oscar flinches, not a lot but enough. Enough for Lando to notice. Enough for Lando to stop and frown, thinking, why? Why had Oscar flinched? Did he say something wrong? 

“Are you ok, Osc?” Lando asks nervously. Oscar simply nods,

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

People run back and forth throughout the garage, wheel guns spin, and the engines purr. Oscar stands with his back towards the cars putting his earpiece in. The calming voice of Tom filters through his ears.

“Be ready to jump in the car in about 10 minutes” 

Oscar lets the information swirl through his brain before it finds its place, tucked neatly into the box of “Racing”. A hand painfully grips his shoulder, pulling him from his musings. 

“You better do good today,” the person hisses in his ear. Oscar nods, petrified.

“Yes Father, I will,” he whispers shakily. He files that thought away into a box labelled ‘Dad’. 

Oscar pulls into the garage, hands shaking. P fucking 18. What the fuck was that. He can already hear the words that’ll be spoken in the garage. Behind his back at first, McLaren workers couldn’t be that bad, right? 

His father was another issue entirely. On some level Oscar knew it was wrong what his Dad has, and continues to, put him through. But it doesn’t make him any less scared. When his Dad comes to races he feels like he’s 11 again, the argument…

The house was quiet, peaceful, and perfect. The dishes were washed. The floor vacuumed. The curtains closed. A blissful scene for a family of six in the outer Melbourne suburbs. Yet, there was a certain tension that hung in the air. Not noticeable to the untrained eye but Oscar was not an untrained eye. He worried that a single breath out of place would disturb the faux family his mother had created. Slowly he walked down the carpeted stairs, unable to sleep. Just as he’s on the last stair the front door slams. Hard.

“If you keep doing that we’ll have to get another one,” he hears his mother say disapprovingly.

“Yeah but the only reason we’d be able to afford another one would be because of me.” His father replies, voice cold and detached. This wasn’t good. It was never good when his Dad sounded like this. Oscar just hoped his sisters hadn’t woken up. Oscar now knows that he shouldn't have gone down. He should’ve just gone back to bed. But he didn’t.

His soft socked feet plod softly against the wooden floorboards. He walks up to his Mum and Dad in the kitchen. They’re talking, he doesn’t know what to do but he can’t go to sleep. He tugs on his Dad’s sleeve.

“Dad,” he says softly, “I can’t sleep. Will you read me a car magazine?”

“The fuck you mean ‘read you a car magazine’?!” he shouts.

“Chris!” his mother snaps,  “Language! And the girls are still sleeping upstairs, I only just got Mae to settle.” 

“Maybe you should try being a better mother then, bitch,” his Dad spits out rapidly.

“ Oscar go to bed, now,” his Mum urges him, steering young Oscar towards the carpeted stairs. 

“Oh no you don’t!” His father yanks him forward so that Oscar is backed up against a wall. “You are the reason we’re even having this argument! You and your stupid Formula 1 dreams, fucking pathetic, I’ll tell you! You are tearing this family apart Oscar!”

“Chris, I said that’s enough!” his mum exploded, “Oscar, go to bed now.” Her tone left no room for argument, but still Oscar remains planted to the spot, frozen. 

Turning toward Nicole, he explodes,

“You don’t get to tell me what’s enough, Nicole!” his father shot back, “It’s all because of him! Him, that we are like this,” he gestures wildly around the kitchen “He is the reason we can’t have a perfect life! HE isn’t even good at karting!” 

Oscar is hurt but also confused. His dad always told him he was really good at karting, hadn’t he just won a race two days ago? 

“But Dad, I just won a race two days ago,” Oscar pipes up. Whilst his dad had been previously facing his Mum he now rounded on Oscar, crowding him.

“WOULD YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP,” Chris screams, “ You are nothing to me, boy! My family would be better off without you!”

Tears roll down Oscar’s cheeks, his bottom lip trembling. His whole body shakes with the force of his emotions. To bestow this on an 11 year-old? He doesn't even know what he’s feeling. Despite all this, younger Oscar looks up at his Dad and whispers,

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

Kim seems to be talking to him but Oscar can’t hear. Can’t hear anything but the same words repeated over and over in his head. “We’d be better off without you” echoing in his hurricane mind. He’s only yanked out of his thoughts when Kim’s finally had enough and grabs his forearm. Joling Oscar back to reality.

“-scar! Oscar! Mate, come on!” 

“Huh, oh. Sorry Kim,” Oscar replies sheepishly. Kim sighs and pushes a plate of steamed veggies, brown rice,and a plain chicken breast towards him.

“Oscar I know you haven’t eaten nearly enough food this weekend. You’re lucky I’m letting you get away with it. But this’ll be the only weekend I’ll let you get away with it because it’s your first race, okay? Now eat.” Kim finishes. Abruptly Kim’s phone starts ringing.

“This plate better be squeaky clean when I’m finished with this,” Kim warns as he walks away to take the call.

The plate so full of calories stares at Oscar, daring him to eat it. His stomach clenches painfully, begging for the substance he so desperately needs. But the calories there would have to be at least 500. He’s not allowed to have that. That would make him slower, and he has to be fast. Especially when he’s starting P18. His father told him as much last night. Sighing Oscar picks up his fork and pushes some of the rice around, screwing up his nose in disgust. Glancing around Oscar spots a bin, perfect. He slowly gets up and strolls over to the bin, inconspicuously dumping the plate of food in the bin. Oscar scurries back towards his table and places the plate back down. He quickly looks around the table to see if anyone noticed what he did but instead of an upset Kim he sees a determined Lando barreling towards him. 

“Osc!” the brit shouts from across hospitality, sprinting through the maze of tables and chairs before landing in the chair next to Oscar.

Lando was just waiting for Block Blast to download when he notices Oscar walking towards a bin with his full pre-race meal in hand. Lando’s stomach drops. Because he notices. He notices that Oscar’s hands shake. He notices that Oscar hadn’t eaten anything all day. 

Lando POV:
Ping!

“Finally!” Lando thinks as Block Blast opens up. He should show Oscar this, he’d definitely like the game. Maybe Lando can even convince him to download it! With a goal firmly set in place he starts to weave through hospitality towards Oscar.

“Osc!” He calls out with a grin on his face. 

Slightly out of breath, Lando plops into the chair next to Oscar.

“Look Oscah !” Lando says excitedly, waving his phone with the new game displayed on it, “It’s called Block Blast and…”

Oscar POV:

“And 30 seconds until formation lap, Oscar,” Tom’s voice crackles through the radio. A slice of calm before the storm.

“20 seconds until lights out,”

“15 seconds,”

“10 seconds,”

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“AND IT’S LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 2023!”

Punch the throttle. Manoeuvre around Magnussen and Logan. Can’t get past Albon, fuck. Brake for turn 1. Gently on the throttle before dropping gears into turn 2. Full speed into turn 3 and onto the first straight. Wait. Something isn’t right. When he goes through the gears some of them don’t work…

“Tom, I think we have a bit of an issue? Something to do with the gears,”

“Copy Oscar. Just keep driving normally for now,” his engineer responds, calming Oscar’s nerves slightly. He starts pushing to catch up to Albon.

A couple of laps later Oscar frowns in his helmet. His head hurts, like a lot. Why are his hands shaking? And god, his head. It feels as though a thousand nails are slowly inserting themselves into his skull. Oscar groans in his helmet, vision going in and out. His stomach cramps painfully and his hands continue to shake violently. Full body chills run through him. The car twitches. Oscar corrects. His body aches. He’s sure he can taste blood in the back of his throat..

“Oscar?” Tom’s concerned voice echoes in his ear, adding to the sharp throbbing in his head.

“Ugh, yeah?” Oscar groans through the radio.

“You weren't responding for a bit and the car was twitching, are you okay?” The question is covered in fuzz, like a mouldy piece of cake. His brain is taking far too long to process the information given to him. 

“Yep, peachy,” he responds, hoping some dry humor could cover the obvious pain in his voice.

“Copy, let us know if you’re not feeling any good,” 

Oscar’s about to confirm to Tom when the gears seize up violently, forcing him to use the run off area. Coupled with another bout of intense stomach cramps, Oscar’s nerves are frayed like the ends of your shoelaces after school camp. He fights not only the car but himself to be able to wrestle MCL60 back onto the circuit. 

“Tom, the gears are fucked,” Oscar manages to grit out after his hands reduce their shaking. 

“Yeah, copy,” a short pause then- “Box, box. And box, box to retire the car. We have an electrical issue. Sorry mate.”

The world narrows to Oscar’s hands and Tom’s voice in his ear. Retire the car, floods through his mind as if it were the storm surge before a hurricane. He swims in the words, they're overwhelming. His hands begin to shake again as he pulls up to his pit box. He couldn’t even start to think about what would happen after he got out of the cockpit.

Media is hell. He puts on his fake smile, shows them lies. But his eyes keep glancing to his left, just past the media pen where his dad is standing. Arms crossed, furrow in his brow, and  left foot tapping the ground. He’s impatient, that can only mean bad things. But when is it ever good things with his father? At least he has an excuse to stay at McLaren until late, avoiding the inevitable. The interview wraps up and he walks back toward the garage, planning on watching the race from his driver's room but obviously Kim has other plans. 

“And where do you think you’re going, Oscar?” He asks smugly, waltzing up beside Oscar after his PR person splits and goes to hospitality. “Because I believe that there is a perfect cool down routine that needs to be completed before anything else happens,”

Oscar groans, of course, the mandatory post-race cool down that apparently needs to be completed despite him only being in the car for 13 racing laps. Grumbling quietly to himself Oscar goes to the mini-gym set-up in hospitality that is designed for the team whilst they’re at the track.

After a 30 minute cool-down (read: torture session) Oscar heads back to his driver’s room, preferring the peace of not having cameras constantly trained on him. The race is… not that interesting. Max wins by 11 seconds, a sure sign of what the year will look like. Charles retires, Oscar considers going over to Ferrari to talk to Charles. But what would he even say? “Sorry your car is shit? Mine is too?”. That feels weird, so he doesn’t. He just sits in his room and watches the rest of the race. Lando’s six pit stops don’t give him much confidence about the rest of the season, though. He sighs as he watches the podium ceremony, his hopes of winning races slowly diminishing. A loud voice sounds down the hallway outside OScar’s driver room 

Oscar’s Hotel Room

Oscar curls in on himself, sobbing, as hit after hit after hit lands on his already weakened body. 

“Shut the fuck up!” his father growls, twisting Oscar’s left arm painfully.

“You,” Punch to the right shoulder.

“Are,” Slap to the thigh.

“A,” punch to the abdomen.

“Fucking,” punch to the nose, it starts bleeding freely.

“Disgrace!” His dad punches him in the face with an audible crack echoing through the room. Blood still spills down Oscar’s face, it’s hot and sticky. But his father doesn’t relent, shoving Oscar back down when he tries to stand up. He lands on his right shoulder, sharp pain pulsing through his arm.

“I hope you kill yourself,” his father spits, the hotel door slamming behind him. 

“I love you too,” Oscar whispers before the room fades into black. 

The first thing Oscar notices when he comes to is that he’s cold, freezing even. The thin bloodstained t-shirt and shorts doing nothing to protect him from the air-con on full blast. Apart from the air-con whirring rhythmically the hotel room is disturbingly quiet until Oscar fully comes too. Pained whimpers take over the silence as Oscar tries, and fails, to sit up. Looking around the room he sees the bed, only a few steps away. A plan is formed, shuffle to the bed then use it to try and sit up. Oscar gingerly puts one arm on the ground, planning on almost commando crawling towards the bed when a prickling pain starts from his right shoulder all the way to his wrist. It’s uncomfortable, but not unmanageable. Gritting his teeth he pushes forward, ignoring the prickles. Out of breath he reaches the end of the bed and hauls himself up to sit against it. Once his breathing is under control Oscar assesses the room. The curtains are closed and a lamp on the bedside table casts a warm glow throughout the room. His suitcase is near the bathroom door, clothes in messy piles all around it. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, a cool light filtering through the door. A wave of dizziness overcomes him, the world tilting on its axis, ‘No, not again’ Oscar thinks, fighting to stay awake. Coupled with the gradually increasing pain in his shoulder and stomach, this was a losing battle for Oscar. ‘Fuck’ Oscar curses internally before…

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Chapter Text

Oscar washes the residual blood off his face, neck and chest, watching the pink water swirl in the sink before disappearing down the drain, just like his hope. Hope of being loved. It was foolish, really. To think that once he became a Formula 1 driver everything would be fixed. The family rifts, the anxiety, the scars, his Dad, everything. But it hadn’t, no, becoming a formula 1 driver had made everything worse . His whole body aches, the kind of deep-rooted pain that consumes you wholly and completely. 

The tears start quietly. Salty streams flow over his cheeks and chin. Gently the crying increases in intensity, quiet distress becomes harsh and unforgivable sobs that rattle Oscar to his bones. He drops to the floor and crawls to the toilet, ripping the rim so tightly that he feels like his fingers are going to break.

Oscar heaves into the toilet, everything he ate today sloshing into the once pristine toilet bowl. His throat burns, the acid from his stomach painful against his already sensitive throat. He leans back on his knees, reaches up to the bathroom vanity and grabs a glass of water he’d left there. He sips slowly, trying to get rid of that awful bile taste when Oscar's stomach cramps painfully, he drops the glass it shatters on the floor, like his hope of a restful night. Lurching towards the toilet, he doesn’t make it. His vomit splatters all over the toilet bowl, painting it an ugly shade of puce. Chunks of food he’s managed to force down his throat before the panicked thoughts stick to the bowl of the toilet.Oscar grimaces, partly from the feeling in his throat, and partly from the mess he’s made. 

His hands shake as he hauls himself upright with the help of the vanity staring at his gaunt face greeting him in the mirror. Shakily he exhales, his shoulder’s drop as he reaches for his toothbrush. For now, he will ignore the mess on and around the toilet. The calming rhythm of brushing his teeth distracts him momentarily, allowing an escape from the monsters now awakened. The respite doesn't last for long, though. As soon as Oscar puts his toothbrush away the monsters storm into his mind, picking at every failure, every mistake, until he’s trying to get rid of them the only way he knows how. 

The blade falls out of the mint's case and clatters onto the vanity, still slightly red at the tip. Normally Oscar would clean his blade meticulously, until it’s polished and shining, he takes a weird sort of pride in it. Not happiness though, never happiness. 

He’s glad he chose a t-shirt to wear in his hotel, usually he wouldn’t, paranoid that someone could see them. That someone could see the cuts, some already turned to scars, some still bright red around the edges. He can’t let anyone see them.

A N Y O N E. . . 

With trembling hands Oscar reaches for the blade, gripping it tightly he raises it against his left forearm. The first cut is always the hardest but..

“Selfish, selfish, selfish,” repeats in his mind, the monsters circling. A gasp of pain then, a line of red trickles down his arm and onto his hand. The monsters take a small step back. Gritting his teeth, Oscar raises the blade again.

The skin slices. Tears roll. Nerves burn. Shame ripples. But the monsters. The monsters took a step back. He must keep going, or else the monsters will get to him, their hands closing over his throat just like that day whe- NO!

Another slice. More blood. More tears. More burning. More shame. Less monsters. 

All three cuts are freely bleeding at this point and Oscar is starting to feel a little dizzy, but that’s nothing new, a new monster hisses in his ear. Shit.

The blade comes up again. The cut is bigger than the last three, maybe the size of his whole pointer finger? Oscar doesn’t really care. It’s like liquid fire coursing through his veins, his nerves are split and aching. An ugly half-muffled scream breaks free from his lips. Up until this point he’d just been crying silently, a skill that had been honed over many years. 

The monsters won’t go away, he just wants it to STOP! His life isn’t worth living, he can’t do it anymore. It’s too much. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He has too. He has too. But he doesn’t want to. But he has too. 

But he can’t. He can’t keep surviving like this. It hurts. And no-one sees, no-one hears. They can’t hear his screams, his cries. They’re all hidden behind closed doors that no-one can be bothered to check.

This world would be better off without him. 

Jagged cries echo around the bathroom, each a call to crushed dreams and lost hopes. The lights, once warm and inviting, turn cold and callous, not unlike his father. At this point Oscar doesn’t even realise that he’s been cutting himself all this time. The monsters have disappeared so he could stop. Or, he could keep slicing skin to make sure that the monsters stay away from him for longer… 

An ugly picture of cut nerves and sticky blood paint his forearm a disturbing maroon. The ding of his phone reminds him of reality. He looks around, properly. And what he sees scares him, vomit splattered all in, around and on the once pristine toilet. Blood pooling on the floor from where it’s dripping off his arm. His face in the mirror, eyes bloodshot and puffy, lips trembling, cheeks and nose red from crying, his skin pale and clammy, and his whole body, shaking, from adrenaline. Oscar realises that he needs to clean up, and quickly. Lando, Kim or Logan could walk through his door at any moment. With a pang of guilt Oscar realises that Logan had his hotel key-card for exactly this. To stop him from getting to this stage, next time, Oscar promises himself, dropping the blood-stained knife into the sink and turning the tap on. He watches as the blood turns pink and trickles down into the sink. Now to tackle his arm. 

He grabs a towel and runs it under some warm water, beginning to gently dab at the assortment of cuts on his forearm. Wincing slightly at the sensation of the towel against his raw nerves. Oscar opens the little first-aid cupboard and picks up some gauze, bandages and antiseptic cream. He puts the towel in the laundry basket. Gritting his teeth, Oscar opens the antiseptic cream and squeezes a little onto his cuts. The cool, creamy substance is a shock against his hot skin but not painful, just… weird. Oscar opens the gauze and places it against the worst of the slices after that he wraps his arm in bandages, doing a shit job of it but oh well. All they have to do is hold for tonight and the flight back to London. With his arm cleaned up he turned to face the disgusting toilet area. He sighs, a wave of tiredness washing over him. Oscar shakes his head as he looks for the cleaning kit they keep in hotels, he eventually finds it in a linen cupboard. Oscar grabs the mop and gets to work. 

It’s well past 2am by the time he finishes and he is exhausted. Oscar barely even pulls the doona over him before he is conked out. However, sleep is anything but restful, nightmares plague his mind. Each a cacophony of past abuse and screams for help. 

A knock on his hotel door is what wakes Oscar up. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Oscar reaches around for his phone. When the screen lights up it blinds him. After desperately turning the brightness down he sees the time 12:06pm. Shit. He has a flight at 3pm so that’s probably Kim telling him to haul his ass to the airport and eat a shitty excuse for a meal. Yeah, mornings are not Oscar’s favourite. 

“Yeah, yeah. I KNOW, Kim,” He yells out in the general direction of the door. A muffled, 

“Breakfast in 30,” can be heard through the door. Grumbling to himself Oscar hauls himself out of bed, flinching when he puts pressure on his injured shoulder. Walking in the bathroom he smells strong antiseptics and is reminded of last night. Grimacing, he looks down to his arm as tears gather in the corners of his eyes. So fucking stupid, he’s in Formula 1, he should be able to handle a DNF… But it hurts. It hurts. Not just it, but everything. It feels like the weight of the world is pushing into his brain, into his chest, into his very being. It settles there and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it. It just, it just hurts . The tears stream freely, there’s no point in holding them back. Everyone says life is a blessing but what if it’s a curse wrapped in pretty paper?

Oscar drags his suitcase behind him, tuning out Kim’s rant against calorie counting. Airports always make him feel.. Disconnected. Which is ironic considering that the whole point of airports is to connect people. He just tries to focus on his steps, one foot in front of the other, until. A hand grabs his shoulder. Oscar gasps, immediately jerking away. 

“Oscar!” 

Fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Didn’t know you were on the same flight!”

Face shoved into the ground.

“Wait,”

He’s gasping for breath.

“Hey, you okay?”

Blood falls to the floor.

“Oscar?”

Pain radiates from his stomach.

“Woah, Oscar can you hear me?”

Disappointed faces flash, bruises turning purple then green. 

Slowly he starts to break away from the memories. They simply fade back into the dark corners of his mind. His breathing is uneven and he’s shaking. Blinking he notices two faces in front of him. 

“Huh?” he manages, voice cracking. 

“Lost you for a minute there, mate,” Kim jokes. 

“Oh,”

“Come on, Lando Kim, Oscar!” Jon yells out from somewhere nearby, “We’ve got a plane to catch!” 

Lando glances at Oscar, his sea green eyes glowing with concern. 

“Tell me if you need anything. Osc,” he says before walking back towards Jon. 

The cabin crew greet them warmly as they walk up the stairs and into the plane. Oscar’s backpack sits heavy on his shoulders. The air-con hits the full blast when they enter. It’s a good thing, too, because Oscar had gotten quite a few weird looks from strangers and Kim for wearing a thick hoodie and trackies. Oscar watches as Lando fast tracks it to the very back of the jet. Sighing he walks towards the middle of the plane and sits down. 

The quiet luxury of formula 1 is something Oscar doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. Sharing a jet with his coworkers is insane. 

During pre-season testing Lewis approached him to ask for his number. At first Oscar was shocked and a little confused, why would THE Lewis Hamilton ask for his number. It turns out that it was for the private jet chat that the drivers use. They all share around jets and fly together to and from races. Oscar had been invited to share Max’s jet back to Monaco with Lando, Charles, Max, Logan, Alex, and George. Plus both Oscar and Lando’s trainers are tagging along. Oscar is brought out of his musings by a sift ping echoing through the cabin. He pulls out his phone and sighs, unlocking it. A text from Logan, probably something about the race or..

logan🦅🍔

hey so i can’t make the flight sorryyyy

williams want me to do more data analysis, sigh

why doesn’t alex have to do any of this 😭

                                                                                                                        ozzie ozzie ozzie

                                   i can’t believe ur leaving me on a flight w ppl i barely know for 10 hours

                                                                 where is the best friend i once knew and loved, huh

                                                                                                                                         💔😪

logan🦅🍔

srry bby 😔

how bout i kiss it better 

                                                                                                                       ozzie ozzie ozzie

                                                                                                                                   yeah, nah

                                                                                                         im glad ur not on this flight

logan🦅🍔

its ok bby, every relationship goes through tough phases

😘😘😘

                                                                                                                       ozzie ozzie ozzie

                                                                                                                                i will block u

logan🦅🍔

no need to resort to dramatics, sweetheart

shit

gtg, sry

remember ur breathing, k?

                                                                                                                       ozzie ozzie ozzie

                                                                                                                                thanks logie

                                                                                                                                  see u soon

Oscar puts his phone in his pocket as he chooses a seat. He starts to take off his backpack, planning on putting it in the overhead luggage compartment when a loud bang distracts him. 

“AH, SHIT!”

“I fucking told you to check that bag in, you idiot! Merde ,”

“Yeah, could you, like, not try and impress Charles everytime we fly together?”

“Fuck off, Albon! I can handle this,”

“Yeah sure thing, but I’m gonna go enjoy some unsupervised eating, for once,”

“Amen, Lex,”

Oscar peers towards the front of the plane and sees Alex Albon and Charles Leclerc giggling whilst walking down the generous plane aisle. Behind them a very disgruntled Max Verstappen appears, trying to carry three suitcases?! He is very confused. Why would Max try to carry three suitcases when he could just check them in. Obviously his confusion must be very apparent on his face because Alex suddenly says,

“Oh my god! Look at Oscar’s face! See, HE understands, he understands my confusion and pain!”

Charles bursts out laughing, “Alex, mon ami, it’s not that deep!”

Alex sighs, “Sometimes, my suffering, it is hard to comprehend,” he pauses for a moment before pronouncing, “I got that one from my good friend George Russell,” Alex concludes solemnly. By this point Charles has all but collapsed onto the floor, clutching onto one of the armrests for dear life.

It is at that exact moment that Max drops all three suitcases directly onto his legs. 

“Fuck!” He yells out, in pain. 

“This day,” Charles wheezes, “just keeps getting better and better!

“Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for take off. Make sure any loose items are secured and your carry-ons are either in the compartment above your chair or underneath your seat. Service will start as soon as we reach cruising altitude.” A flight attendant's voice announces through the plane. 

Oscar grips the armrests of his seat painfully, knuckles going white. His breathing quickens as they start taxiing down the run-way. He desperately tries to remember the breathing techniques that Logan had taught him for flying. But it feels useless when all he can think about is falling out of the sky and that immense pressure pushing into his chest. His breaths come in gasps, insinuating a sharp pain in his chest. A gentle hand touches his upper arm, somehow filtering through his panicked thoughts.

“Osc?” Lando, at least Oscar thinks it’s Lando says.

“Oscar? Oscar, can you hear me?” 

Breathing out shakily Oscar tries to say ‘yeah’ but it comes out as more of an “Ugh”.

“Ok, I’m going to take that as a yes. I want you to try and breathe with me, ok? In and out, in and out. Yes, that’s it Osc, you can do this, okay?” Lando guides Oscar through the haze in his mind, Lando’s really the only thing that’s anchoring him to the real world. 

“Here,” the Brit says, producing a small bar of chocolate, “chocolate can fix anything, Osc. Anything.” 

Oscar shakily extends a hand out, reaching for the chocolate bar. But the calories, they stare at him, taunting him. The monsters rear in his head. He can’t, he can’t not after last night. In a panic Oscar slaps the chocolate bar out of Lando’s hand, watching as it soars into the aisle and lands on the carpeted floor. Immediately Oscar is extremely embarrassed. He looks down into his lap, heat rushing into his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry, Lando,” he whispers, unsure if Lando could even hear him.

“Oh Osc, it’s ok. Can I hug you?” Oscar nods.

This hug, it’s different. It’s not like Mark’s congratulatory hugs, or his MUm’s once in a blue moon hugs, it’s not like the pats on his backs from F2 or F3. It’s… warmer. It’s supportive and kind. It’s comforting. Everything feels right during this hug. 

Only when Lando sits back down in his own seat does Oscar realise that they've reached cruising altitude. Huh, Lanod must’ve helped him through the entire ascent. A wave of shame crashes through him. If he can’t even make it through a plane flight, how is he supposed to be successful in Formula 1? 

“Oscar I’m just gonna go play Uno with Lex and Charles, you’re welcome to join but you look pretty exhausted and in desperate need of a nap sooo,” Lando says whilst walking further down the jet and towards Asex and Charles. Oscar nods weakly. Maybe Lando’s right, a nap would be really good about now…

The door to Oscar’s decrepit flat creaks open as he pushes his suitcase in the door and to the side. He beelines for the bedroom and flops onto the single bed, exhausted. It turns out after flying 10 hours in a private jet 2 hours in economy is the definition of hell. Plus getting a taxi from Heathrow airport to his flat in Woking is a lot more draining than he thought. 

Oscar doesn’t even bother to change clothes, simply plugs his phone in and crawls under the doona. He is dead to the world in not-time.

Chapter Text

Hi,

It's been a while, sorry about that. I just wanted to update anyone who might be interested in this work.

I have NOT abandoned this fic, I promise!! I'm actually 1.7k words into the next chaper, if you can believe it. I will not abandon this fic.

Okay... so a LOT has happened to me in the past few months, if you don't want to know about it, that's cool just scroll to where the 3 ~~~ are.

 My grandad got diagnosed with early-onset dementia. To combat this he got brain surgery and was in hospital for around 2 weeks but after he was out of surgery he got gastro which is an awful stomach bug. They had to move him to intensive care. After that he went back home, in pain but back home. For his 3 week (?) post check up the doctors discovered he had basically a hole in his stomach lining which is exteremly painful. BUT they can't even operate on him until he's fully recovered from his brain surgery >:(. Hopefully he's good to go by the end of November.

Now there's me. Long story short I got depressed. But to make a short story long; multiple factors in my life compounding over many years led me to become *ahem* Clinically Depressed. But I got put on anti-depressants/anti-anxiety meds and am attending therapy. Shoutout Julia, you are awesome. I won't go into detail about my depression but I can just say anyone suffering from depression, I know. 

On top of that I have also recently found out that over the last year and a half I have lost way too much weight, not intentonally. So that's something I'm still coming to terms with. Likely due to iron/vitamin deficiencys. 

~~~

In terms of where the story is going I have the 3 main plot points almost all fully planned out, the only one I'm still working on is the whole Alpine Trauma plotline but I have a pretty good idea of where that's going, so fingeres crossed. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out but I am writing it. I am considering trying to write a chapter ahead, if I do end up doing that the next chapter could take a while.

Anyways, sorry once again for not updating, hopefully I'll start to gain some more momentum soon!

Final thanks to anyone who has commented, given a kudos, or even just clicked on this fic.

I LOVE YOU <3