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It made no sense that he was here. Let’s see, it’s pouring outside, unusually so for winter in Monaco. It’s two in the morning. Lando looks like he’s shaking slightly in the cold wind. It's winter break. Its TWO in the morning, and he’s standing on Oscar’s doorstep.
“Can I come in?” Lando asks like its the most normal thing in the world.
No hello. No hi. No sorry I undercut you for the championship title. Just can I come in?
Oscar tightens his grip on the door handle and steps forward, instinctively placing himself between Lando and the rest of his house, like he’s afraid that letting Lando in will somehow ruin the quiet equilibrium of his sanctuary, like throwing a pebble in a lake.
“What are you doing here?” Oscar answers, not really answering at all.
“I just…” Lando stumbles, words tangling the way they always do when he’s nervous. “I saw your car in the driveway and figured you were back. I didn’t know till when you’d be here. You haven’t been responding to my texts and, well… I just…I wanted to see you, talk to you. Maybe if we could go inside, chat for a bit?”
Oscar had just returned to Monaco in the afternoon after a much needed break with his family back him in Australia. Had Lando been waiting for him to return? Had he been checking from his window, the one with the view straight into Oscar’s driveway? Did he check every day? Multiple times a day?
Oscar had seen all of Lando’s 8 text messages ofcourse. He'd read them over and over, sometimes even hovered over the text box to reply, but he hadn’t. That part was true. Even now, he was in no mood to hear Lando’s condolences, or how much respect he has for him as a rival and teammate, all that carefully rehearsed drivel he’d been saying into microphones for weeks. Not after he’d already spent every last polite smile he could muster at the McLaren Christmas party and the FIA gala. Maybe he was being somewhat petulant. Maybe he just wasn’t ready yet. Eitherway, he figured Lando could live with it, preoccupied with being the world champion as he was.
But here Lando was at two in the morning, rain pouring down, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shivering slightly, casually confessing to what could qualify as stalking.
“Don’t think it’s a great idea, mate,” Oscar manages. He won't give in this time.
“Then come out for a drive with me,” Lando says.
What an idiot, Oscar thinks. Does he have no sense of self-preservation? But that’s Lando, never afraid of embarrassment if it means being honest. Always all in. Cards on the table. Heart on his sleeve.
Once upon a time, Oscar might’ve found that endearing.
“What?”
“Yeah, just for a bit. Let’s go for a drive. Like we used to. Come on, Osc, please.”
It’s the Osc, please that does it. He says it so soft, almost fragile, that for the first time, Oscar wonders if Lando isn’t quite as foolishly confident as he pretends to be.
“Fine,” he sighs. “Just for a bit. Got an early morning flight.”
He doesn’t say where he’s going and Lando doesn’t ask. He just grins that familiar wide and goofy smile and Oscar realizes it’s the first time he’s seen it in a long while. Atleast the first time it's directed at him... since Abu Dhabi.
Oscar ducks back inside to grab a jacket. When he comes out, Lando’s already in the car, his Lamborghini SUV of all things. Not the fastest or flashiest of Lando’s collection.
As Oscar buckles in, he glances around. “Why this car?”
Lando pulls out of the driveway and immediately pushes the SUV harder than necessary. The roads are empty, slick with rain. The car isn’t anywhere near as fast as what they’re used to, even on regular roads, so Oscar isn’t too worried.
“More discreet,” Lando offers by way of explanation.
The city slips past them in a blur of wet stone and dim streetlights, Monaco stripped of its usual glamour at this hour, the rain dulling all its garish extravagance down to muted greys and golds.
Oscar watches the road more than Lando does, even though he isn’t the one driving. Old habit and old instincts he supposes.
Lando’s hands are steady on the wheel, knuckles pale against the dark interior. Oscar is in no hurry to be the one to break the meditative silence, but he does steal a glance at the other. So this is what a world champion looks like. He looks like the same old Lando though. His hair is a bit longer, and his tan a bit deeper. Oscar’s seen the pictures of his tropical holiday with his girlfriend and friends. Not that he would admit to it. So maybe he’s been stalking him a bit too. His jaw is set in that familiar way he gets when he’s concentrating too hard on something simple, like driving, because it keeps him from thinking about everything else. And yet, something is off. The familiar spark in Lando’s eyes is dulled. He looks…worn out, exhausted. Maybe all the parties and celebrations have finally caught up to him. Or maybe it’s just Oscar being bitter.
If Lando notices him staring, he doesn’t say anything.
The engine hums beneath them, smooth and low, and the SUV glides through empty streets. Oscar shifts slightly in his seat, the leather creaking softly, and he resists the urge to fold his arms in on himself. He tells himself he’s fine. That this is just a drive that he agreed to.
“You remember,” Lando says eventually, voice quiet, like he's carefully choosing his words, “how we used to do this after bad weekends?”
Oscar doesn’t answer straight away. He remembers. Of course he does. Late-night drives with no destination, just to feel the familiar vibration, because in a moving car is the only way either of them felt at ease when everything else felt stuck. The last time they did this was after the disastrous race in Montreal.
“Yeah,” he says finally. Just one word to keep it neutral and safe.
Lando nods, like that’s enough, like he wasn’t hoping for more.
They take a turn toward the outskirts, away from the harbour and the yachts and the places that still feel too loud and bright, even when they're mostly empty. Oscar intently stares out of the window, if only to not look at anything in the car. The rain has eased slightly, thinning into a mist that now clings to the glass, making the streetlights smear into long, hazy lines. He breathes out slowly, the tension in his shoulders loosening despite himself.
“I didn’t come to beg for forgiveness or anything,” Lando says after a while, eyes still on the road. “Just… didn’t want this to be how it is going into the new season, this silence between us.”
That lands heavier than Oscar expects. But it's so Lando, to start an apology, or a non-apology in this case, being defensive.
“We’re rivals,” Lando continues and it’s the last word Oscar wants to hear. He thinks if he never hears that word again it'll be too soon. “But I don’t want us to be enemies Osc. We’ve been doing so well. We’ve always had mutual respect and we make such a good team. I just want…I wish…I don’t want you to resent me.”
Oscar looks out the window, watches water trail down the glass in uneven paths and thinks about all the times he chose to be ‘respectful’ instead of speaking his mind. And all the things he hasn’t said because they felt too complicated and too sharp around the edges. And how what Lando doesn't seem to understand is that respect can sit right next to resentment, and both can be true at the same time.
“I know,” Oscar says instead quietly.
The road curves upward, away from the city, climbing into a quieter, darker, narrow stretch of just asphalt and rain and the steady rhythm of the engine. The car slows as they reach a lookout point, the kind tourists crowd during the day. Now it’s empty, washed clean by rain. Lando pulls over and turns off the engine. The sudden quiet presses down on them, heavy and intimate in a way that makes Oscar uncomfortable.
Neither of them gets out.
From here, the city is distant, just an expanse of scattered twinkling soft lights. Oscar thinks about how easy it would be to stay in this car forever, just suspended in time, where nothing is demanded of him except sitting still.
“I meant what I said,” Lando murmurs, staring out through the windshield. “About enjoying it, the title fight, and–, and about how I admire you.”
Oscar swallows. The words settle low in his chest, familiar yet painful at the same time. Enjoyment. Respect. Admiration. All these safe words they’re allowed to use. All these words that stop just short of other words, more dangerous, delicate words they daren't say.
“I know,” he says again, because it’s still the only thing he can offer.
Lando sighs and Oscar can tell he’s frustrated with his clipped answers, but Oscar’s never been good with words, never been good at speaking his mind when he needed to, and isn't that a huge part of his problem.
“How does it feel to be world champion?” he asks, because Oscar is a decent man, known for his cool composure, but sometimes he can’t help it. Sometimes he lets the beast slip its leash, lets the bitterness bleed through. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll explode.
“Fantastic. It feels like being on top of the world. It’s everything I ever dreamed of,” Lando deadpans, like he’s rattling off rehearsed words. Then he covers his face with his hands, shoulders slumping. Oscar watches the bravado drain out of him in real time, and he has this irrational urge to pull him close, to wrap him up and console him, which is ridiculous, because Lando is the winner, and Oscar is the one who lost.
“What if I told you that when I went to bed that night, all I wanted was to hold you,” Lando says into his hands, not looking at him, “and tell you that losing you wasn’t worth winning any championship?”
Once again, Oscar is bowled over by his openness, by how easily Lando can say such things and be this vulnerable with someone who’s given him nothing but radio silence in return, not to mention, someone who has spent the better part of the year actively trying to snatch his dream.
“I’d say you're an idiot,” Oscar says, trying to puncture the heaviness in the air with a weak attempt at a joke.
But because Lando has always been braver, no, more brazen than Oscar has, he doesn’t take the out that Oscar is giving him to laugh it off and change the subject. He doubles down instead. He reaches across the gearshift and touches Oscar’s hand resting on his thigh. He doesn’t hold it, just brushes his pinky against Oscar’s. His finger is cold, but Oscar doesn’t pull away. That seems to embolden Lando, and he hooks their pinkies together.
“This sucks,” he finally says. Ever so eloquent.
Oscar smiles despite himself, because it does suck, and there’s no better way to put it.
He thinks about the last time he felt Lando’s skin against his own like this—no gloves, no fireproofs, no helmets between them. A rainy night, much like this one, in the Netherlands months ago, which feels like a lifetime ago. Back when they were deep in the fight for the championship. Toe to toe. Both with a real shot at it. Tension humming between them, energy crackling as they stubbornly pretended it wasn’t getting to them, that they were a team above all else, friends even.
Lando had knocked on his hotel room door the night before the race, completely off his face. Oscar hadn’t been expecting him. It comes back to him in flashes now like a highlight reel. The two of them standing in the middle of the room. Lando asking, Do you feel it too? Does it kill you too? How can you stand this? Saying he just wanted it to be them for a minute, just Oscar and Lando, not Piastri and Norris of Mclaren, WDC contenders.
And then Lando leaning into him, hugging him, and Oscar letting him. Oscar letting Lando’s lips find his. He hadn’t moved, he hadn’t kissed Lando back, but he hadn’t stopped him either. He had let Lando take his bottom lip between his own, had let him bite down till he drew blood, had let him run his tongue along his teeth and pry them apart. But he hadn’t kissed him back, if only to maintain a warped sort of plausible deniability. If he wasn’t kissing him back, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t betraying his partner of seven years and he wasn’t taking advantage of a drunk man. Right?
But he hadn’t pushed him away either. And for a split second, he’d closed his eyes and let himself imagine what it would be like if he did let go and let himself take what Lando was offering, the thought of which he’d never allowed into his conscious mind. Always buried deep underneath layers and layers of rational thinking.
And now, again, he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t take Lando’s hand, doesn’t pull him in, but he doesn’t let go either. Instead, he lets their pinkies stay tangled in the dark.
He knows Lando is waiting for him to say something, to say anything. And maybe the only way the tightness in his own chest will ease is if he does let some of the steam out.
“I won't lie, it did hurt,” Oscar offers quietly. “And maybe I was also a bit bitter. Maybe I still am and will be for a while. But I don’t think I was ever really mad at you. You won, and you deserved to win. You have nothing to apologize for."
“I don’t know how to navigate this any better than you do,” he says then honestly, because Lando is now holding two of his fingers and Oscar is losing the strength to hold up his walls.
“Then be honest with me,” Lando says, looking directly at him “Did I ever have a chance?” Oscar knows he's not talking about the championship.
They never talked about that night again. The next day, Oscar finished P1. Lando retired with a mechanical failure. They shook hands in front of the cameras like they were expected to, but Oscar didn't try to reach out to him after that, even though he knew Lando was having a hard time. Things only deteriorated from there, the wedge driven deeper, the tension sharpening. Lando never brought it up either. And that soft, fragile moment in a hotel room in Zandvoort felt like nothing more than a mirage. They never spoke of it. They never named it. Between all the tension, the rivalry, the attempts at civil friendship while navigating growing friction with team orders and the press and the fans, this was something murkier, something too dangerous, too complicated for either of them to dare to define, especially in the middle of the season. So they both just kept pretending that if they didn’t say it out loud, if they didn't acknowledge it, it might just cease to exist.
“It doesn’t matter,” Oscar says finally, because that’s the truth. This mess they’re in is an impossible situation, title fight or not. And Oscar figures, some boxes are better left unopened and some beasts better left sleeping.
Lando seems to get the point. He pulls his hand back, and Oscar instantly misses it. He wants to reach for it again, wants to pull it back into his own, but he doesn’t.
Eventually, Lando starts the car.The drive back is quieter and somehow longer, even though the rain has nearly stopped. When they pull up outside Oscar’s place, Lando cuts the engine, but neither of them moves right away.
“Do you think we could atleast be friends again?,” Lando asks and even though he is older than Oscar, he sounds much younger right now. “Because that is the one thing you cannot tell me we never were.”
Oscar exhales, slow and careful. “The truth, Lando, is that we are teammates, and we are rivals, and we are going to be both of those things for at least a couple more years. There is no escaping each other. And I think it would be best for both of us if we could also be friends. So, yeah, I am willing to try if you are.”
“Always so practical, Oscar Piastri,” Lando murmurs. “When did you grow up so much?” he smirks, knowing full well how much Oscar hates being reminded of their age difference.
“When you weren't looking,”Oscar smiles, reveling in the sliver of banter, the hint of lightness that feels like an indication that things might not always feel this heavy between them. That there is still hope for recovery. He clings to it like a lifeline, tighter than he would ever admit.
The quip earns him a real Lando smile, gap teeth and all. If there is pain behind it, Lando hides it well. “I never stopped looking at you, Oscar,” he says quietly. “You just started looking away.”
Once again, Oscar does exactly that. He looks away. It is a small act of self-preservation, a quiet shield against the pull of something he knows he cannot reach for without tipping his whole world over.
He opens the door and steps out onto the rain soaked pavement.
“See you next season,” he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. Lando only nods once.
Oscar closes the door and watches the SUV pull out of his driveway.
He stands there until the sound of the engine fades completely, until there is nothing left but the damp air, the quiet street, and the certainty that some things are only ever meant to exist in the space between what once was and what will never be.