Chapter 1: The Calm before
Chapter Text
Monaco Grand Prix - Thursday Media Day
The sun glittered off the Monaco Harbor like everything was fine, but Lando had already lied three times before noon. It was hard to pretend everything was fine when Lando felt like his dream life was falling apart every time he stepped in the car.
Silverstone had been a nightmare that Lando still couldn't escape a week later. The press were blood thirsty beasts, calling him all sorts of things from “not championship material” to “Mclarens second driver”.
Flashback
Despite being in his ninth formula 1 season, fighting to reclaim the drivers championship after narrowly losing to his teammate in 2025. Lando still found himself struggling to feel like he belonged and didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. The start of the 2026 season had gotten off to a rocky start, constantly coming second to his teammate Oscar, the current reigning world champion.
The thought of potentially coming second best to his younger more adored teammate two years in a row, had caused Lando to get lost in a deep spiral for longer than the young Brit would ever admit to. Just when things had been looking up for him going into Silverstone, Max fucking Verstappen couldn’t help himself and just had to remind the entire world why he was a 4 time world champion.
Max had a truly flawless weekend, Lando couldn’t fault him for that, it was nobody but his race to lose, but he did find himself asking God why. Why did it get to be the Max Verstappen show at Silverstone, his home race in front of all his family, friends and thousands of adoring fans.
Going into the race Lando hadn’t set a foot out of line, fastest in every practice session and taking pole, finally managing to one up his teammate. Lando had felt like he was on could 9 with Max and Oscar both being knocked out in Q1 by a late red flag, it would mean no one could try and assassinate him going into turn 1.
When later asked about the race during his post race interviews, Lando had nothing to say that would hide the boiling feeling of shame. Using every ounce of media training he could muster Lando stared straight into the camera and did the only thing he could think of. In hindsight apologising to all his supporters for letting them down, might not have been the smartest PR move.
But after the race Lando had wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die, the race had been nothing but a shit show from start to finish. Lando had fucked it as soon as the 5 red lights had gone out, missing the apex and running wide into turn 1 dropping back 5 places.
While Lando was fighting to fix his race, Max and Oscar who had started in 20th and 19th respectively were slowly working their way up the grid up to Lando. Being so focused on his own race Lando hadn’t realised how close Oscar and Max were, until lap 30, when Will finally decided to let Lando know both Max and Oscar were approaching his drs.
Blacking out so early in the race meant that by lap 31 all of Landos' fight had been drained leaving him weak and vulnerable to attack. Just surviving lap 31 by the skin of his teeth Lando knew his race was all over by lap 32, he was just a sitting duck with two sharks hot on his wing. By lap 33 the inevitable had occurred and the job was done, he’d been overtaken by both drivers dropping down to 3rd. Lando had kept his head down for the rest of the race, trying desperately to protect his podium finish from a hard charging George.
It was of no use George had managed to get drs going into the final lap, pulling off a cheeky overtake right before the line. Getting out of the car felt like he’d been violently ripped down from heaven and dragged through the mud. Lando had tried to keep his helmet on to collect his emotions after the race, but he’d found himself out of luck again.
Removing his helmet it was as clear as day he’d been crying, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Lando could already picture what the media would have to say from the negative comments about his driving style to his appearance Lando pictured it all, getting lost in his thoughts. Only to be pulled back to the crushing reality, as the Dutch shortly followed by the Austrian anthem blared out over the English countryside.
Looking up to the podium he could see Max high above everyone else lifting the winners trophy with a huge smile, closely followed by Oscar holding up the second place trophy. How Max had gone from last to first, and Oscar from nineteenth to second only God knows, but Lando knew that’s all the media would talk about going into Monaco.
To add more insult to injury the points from the win meant Max was now just a few points away from stripping Lando of his precious second place standing . The constant threat of Max lurking in the shadows did nothing but worsen the growing anxiety pool in his mind.
One particular nasty journalist had gone as far as to ask Lando during the press conference.
“Lando since that disastrous race in Silverstone last week, has the team decided it’s time to prioritise Oscar as it’s clear you are no longer in the Championship fight?”
Lando had all but froze, the question had been unprovoked. Lando could feel with every passing second the tension in the room had started to grow. If he ever met who decided to the top 4 in the championship on the same press schedule, he was going to make them wish their parents never met. Going into the briefing the room had already felt suffocating.
Lando couldn’t say he remembers what happened next or how he made it back to his driver room, all he knew was that his sisters wouldn’t keep messaging him saying how boyfriend material Oscar is for standing up for Lando. He’d been so tempted to block his sisters until they sent him a video, curious Lando opened it and he’d have to agree.
Lando couldn’t get over how perfect Oscar looked, the video had been playing on loop for what felt like hours. The video begins with just as the journalist's question finishes up with Lando nothing but pure panic written over his face, Lando feels sick again just having to relive the memory. He hesitates for a second and that’s all Oscar needs to come to his defence, swiftly swooping in lifting his mic.
“Is this a professional event or is it a gossip session, cause what we aren’t going to do is pretend like Lando isn’t a world class driver he’s won over 15 grand prix. Everyone is entitled to have a bad race, that's the nature of racing. If anyone has anything else to say about Lando you're going to have to go through myself, because I’m not going to sit back and watch my teammate, who believe it or not is my equal, be disrespected by individuals just looking for a headline.”
Oscar lowers the mic carefully before offering out his hand which Lando gratefully takes, as he’s pulled to his feet and ushered out the door. He loses track of how many times he watched the clip, but by the time Gemma knocks on the door informing Lando it's time for his next press event, Lando’s stuck feeling warm and fuzzy.
God Lando thought get yourself under control, this is your co-worker, he really can’t afford to have a silly crush, Lando had learnt his lesson and wasn’t looking to get burnt by a teammate again.
This was the closest the championship battle had been since 2021 and media and fans alike were very prepared to witness another great battle. Lando admittedly hadn’t felt very prepared, sure this wasn’t his first championship battle but it sure felt like the first time everyone was out for blood.
Lando felt like he was slowly being picked apart by a pack of piriahs. It didn’t help that all the other top teams had a clear number 1 and number 2 driver, while Mclaren didn’t. This hadn’t been a problem for Lando at the start, he was the team's leader and top driver. But in came a cool, calm and collected Oscar who acted as if nothing fazed him, the perfect media prince.
A stark difference from Lando who at this point might as well be considered a walking pr disaster, always saying the wrong thing. It was a shame, Lando was once the media prince of Mclaren but unfortunately his public image never truly recovered after his 2024 championship battle with Max.
Lando never liked racing in Monaco, it was a very narrow and unforgiving circuit where the smallest mistakes were punished. Lando knew this all too well, having never managed to score points here, however this wasn’t the true reason Lando hated Monaco. No, it was the media day in Monaco otherwise known as the ninth circle of hell by Lando. He believed they used to day just to see how much pain and suffering the drivers could be subject to before someone breaks.
Monaco was just pr engagement after pr engagement which leaves Lando stuck on a yacht floating in the Mediterranean with no escape. In the back of his mind Lando was vaguely aware that this yacht party was being thrown by some rich investor Zac was keen on signing a partnership with. Lando's nerves were reaching boiling point and in an attempt to get his nerves under control he began the walk to Oscar's drivers room. Just as he was about to knock his phone lit up with none other than Oscars contact.
Oscar
Hey
Hope your alright after this morning
Sorry for my outburst I just don’t like it when the press ask you those kinds of questions
Lando blushed looking at the message, of course Oscar the media darling would apologise for being rude to disrespectful journalists.
Lando
Hey
Yeah I’m fine
No need to apologise me its nice to know my teammate has my back
Are you in your driver's room we are supposed to leave for that party soon?
Oscar
That’s good to hear you know I’ll always have your back we are friends after all
Uhh no sorry I actually left the packdock a while ago something came up
Lando felt his face heat up to epic proportions seeing Oscar call them friends, he never quite knew where he stood with his younger teammate. Despite being on the same team for over four years Lando still felt like him and Oscar were acquaintances at most. He’d seen all the fan edits and news articles about him and Oscar supposedly being in love.
While Lando did have to hand it to the fans that he and Oscar would make a cute couple, they’d be devastated to find out that he and Oscar rarely see or talk to each other much outside of work. It was a harsh boundary to create, constantly icing Oscar out, so Lando was secretly overjoyed that Oscar considered him a friend.
Lando
Friends????????
Oscar
Yes Lando friends, being teammates with someone for five years generally implies being friends
Lando
Oh yeah I totally knew that
Are you coming to the yacht party Zac’s trying to get new investors or something
Oscar
Im kinda caught up in something but if you want me there im sure I could swing by
Lando
No its fine, your busy on some super secret mission
I can go to the party myself
Oscar
I know it's not really our thing but are you sure you feel comfortable going to that party, you looked pretty shaken after this morning. I can talk to Zac if you want out just say the word
Lando was rendered speechless, God why did his teammate have to have such a bleeding heart. Lando took a moment to really take himself in. His once golden skin had become pale and sickly looking, his eyes no longer had that mischievous glint from his rookie days.
Worst of all his hair had become thin and brittle, leaving him unable to rock his signature mullet and curls. Lando knew he wasn’t doing fine physically and mentally, but he sure as hell thought he was hiding it well enough. But if Oscar of all people is asking if he’s ok, it’s only a matter of time before his state is paddock gossip.
Lando
No it’s fine and your right we don’t do these things so back the fuck off
You’ve done more than enough thanks
Oscar
Your always fine that the problem Lando
There’s no shame in reaching out we all struggle from time to time
Seen 6:03pm
Lando scoffed leaving Oscar on read, he didn’t mean to tell Oscar to fuck off it was mean and he knew it. But how else was he supposed to get the man to back off, Lando knew he was directly at fault for creating this awkward push and pull teammate dynamic. Constantly shifting from friends to strangers, it was awful.
Lando had wanted nothing more than to let Oscar in but he refused to open himself up for a teammate again. But Oscar kept on giving and giving and Lando was selfish and just kept on taking and taking. Lando had hoped Oscar would’ve jumped ship by now, to find a better teammate, Oscar deserved something more than Lando would ever be able to give him.
Oscar
Sorry
Seen 6:10pm
Arriving without Oscar by his side was a foreign feeling, ever since becoming teammates Lando had never arrived alone. It left him feeling very exposed as he tried to ignore all the photographers waiting outside. Lando’s eyes already hurt and he’d barely stepped into the building, everything had been blinding white from the flashes of the cameras to the building itself. Lando knew one misstep and he’d been seeing the pearly white gates sooner rather than later.
Dying by photography would be one hell of a way to go, and Lando would be damned before he let it happen to him. Taking a moment to collect himself before walking in, he thought to himself fake it till you make it baby. With a sense of renewed confidence Lando held his head high and plastered on a smile so fake, he almost managed to convince himself he didn’t want to die.
Stepping inside everything looked suspiciously perfect from the all white decor to the all white dress code and waiters running around with trays full of champagne. Lando was instantly overcome by the feeling he was drowning on dry land, the mask he had fought to create just moments before was already threatening to crack and the night had only just begun.
It wasn’t long before he’d caught the attention of one of the waiters and offered a glass of champagne. Against better judgement he had accepted the drink if there was any way he was going to make it through the night he’d need to be at least a tiny bit tipsy.
Lando worked up the courage and began mingling around the room, his efforts were short lived as it wasn’t long before he found himself sticking to an empty corner. It was right about now it hit Lando how truly alone he was, with no Oscar to save him.
God I would've been better off taking Oscar up on his offer, anywhere would be better than here he thought bitterly. He eventually lost track of time staring into the abyss, it could’ve been hours or minutes Lando didn’t know. But eventually his knight in shining armour would arrive.
Lando was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of a familiar voice.
“Need a jail break? Zac’s totally distracted bet we could make a run for it” Came the offering voice of Oscar.
Lando looked up, making eye contact. He didn't know what he’d done to deserve Oscar’s kindness but he’d willingly choose to drown in it every time. Lando let out a breathy “You came”. He thought Oscar would want nothing to do with him after how childish he had acted earlier.
Oscar was ever so confused by Lando’s tone, “ You called” proceeding to pull out his phone and show a missed call from Lando.
Now it was Lando’s turn to be confused, he obviously didn’t remember calling trying to save face he muttered the only thing he could think of. “It was a mistake”. Lando took the time to really look at Oscar's face, as his eyebrows knitted together. His eye’s got that look and Lando knew he was in trouble.
Oscar let out a small laugh before continuing “so you don’t want my help, got it I’ll just turn around and go on my way”. Oscar began to walk away.
A small faint sound came behind him.“Wait” Lando pleaded “I take it back, it wasn't a mistake, take me with you.”
Oscar let out a small chuckle, turning around to offer Lando a hand. “Come on let’s get out of here, I know somewhere better we can go.”
Grateful Lando took the extended hand and hoisted himself up, being hand in hand with Oscar sent small jolts of electricity up his spine. How could something so wrong feel so right, Lando had felt empty all night without Oscar by his side but now side by side he felt complete.
He just wished he could stop feeling this way about his teammate. Lando didn’t notice he was being dragged across the room, until he was face to face with the exit. Stepping into the cool air of the night Lando felt he was born anew. Soon he was being dragged through the bright streets of Monte Carlo without a care in the world.
Starting to feel tired he complained. “Are we almost there yet my feet hurt?”
Forever the gentleman Oscar offered. “I can carry you, if you want”.
Lando was quick to decline. “You know what on second thought my feet actually don’t hurt that bad”.
Oscar went to retort but stopped himself, clearly not wanting to ruin the night by starting another argument. The rest of the walk occurred in silence, however it wasn’t long before they reached the spot.
Oscar sat cross-legged on the low stone wall, bathed in the gold and blue of a Monaco sunset. The sea stretched out below like a silk sheet, barely moving. A soft breeze tugged at the loose strands of his hair.
Lando blinked. “Okay, this is... ridiculously nice. Have you just been hoarding secret scenic spots and not telling me?”
Oscar didn’t look up right away. He popped a chip into his mouth from a bag beside him, then finally turned, that signature half-smile tugging at his lips.
“I saw your soul leave your body during the third drone shot.”
Lando snorted, stepping closer and flopping down beside him. “Pretty sure it was already gone by the second.”
Their shoulders brushed lightly, neither of them moving away. Oscar passed the chip bag without asking. Lando took it like he always did.
It was easy, being with Oscar like this. Quiet. Steady. No cameras. No pretending. Just salt air, the crackle of snack packaging, and the kind of silence that felt like safety rather than awkwardness.
They didn’t talk about the party. Or the fact that Lando had been vibrating with anxiety since his last media appearance. They didn’t need to. It was all in the unspoken things—like how Oscar angled his body slightly toward Lando, like he was ready to catch him if he tipped.
“Y’know,” Lando said after a moment, voice softer, “this doesn’t feel like Monaco.”
Oscar looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“I mean, it does. Technically. But it feels... I don’t know. Real. Not like the weird simulation version with billionaires and branded yachts.”
Oscar tilted his head slightly, considering. “That’s because no one else is talking.”
Lando glanced sideways at him. Their knees touched. Oscar didn’t shift.
“...Thanks for bringing me here,” Lando murmured.
Oscar’s smile softened something private in it, something warm.
“Didn’t say I was sharing,” he said, voice teasing but quiet.
Lando grinned. “Tough. You’ve made it a date now.”
There was a pause. Oscar didn’t laugh, he just looked at Lando a little too long. Like he was thinking about something else entirely.
And then he passed the bag of chips back, and the moment passed, but not completely. Not really.
Because the sunset kept burning, and neither of them moved away.
However all was not well under the surface, it wasn’t long before the sanctuary Lando found with Oscar was destroyed. He’d been doing so well to avoid checking his social media accounts, but he couldn’t help himself. The moment he saw Oscar was no longer intently staring at him, he wiped out his phone and headed straight for his burner account.
Just as Lando was about to switch to his private account he noticed something rather strange, he’d received an dm from an anonymous source. Now being a public figure meant that Lando received thousands, maybe even millions of dms a day that he’d just ignore. But tonight something in his gut was telling him to open the message, his curiosity got the better of him and he opened the message.
Anonymous
Might want to delete your voice notes faster next time, Norris
Enjoy the attachment
mp3.dox
Sent 8:49pm
His eyes were immediately assaulted with memories he’d tried so hard to forget and now some stranger on the internet was now in possession of some of his darkest moments. So he froze. Again. Attached to the dm was a private voice note Lando had created, crying after Abu Dhabi 2026 saying “I don’t think I can do this anymore. What’s the point if I always come second?”
The secrets Lando had fought so hard to conceal were now moments away from falling apart. He should’ve listened to his Mother when she said nothing good happens after dark. With the darkness threatening to close in on all sides, Lando just wished he could remember the last time he had his head above water.
It was like Oscar had a freaky sixth sense for when something was wrong with Lando, and immediately picked up on the change in Lando’s body language. Gone was the care free, boyish smile he loved so dearly on Lando, it was replaced with a taught smile and hunched shoulders. The tension on Lando’s face was palpable. All of which left Oscar feeling like he’d missed something incredibly important.
Oscars first to break the charged silence, “what is it? Is something wrong?”
Lando’s face falls even further, cursing Oscar for being so damn observant. “Nothing just trolls” he lies.
Oscar doesn't believe it for a second quickly retorting.“Whatever just happened didn’t seem like nothing Lando, you seized up clear as day, something you never do unless you're worried”.
Lando tried to deflect “since when did you become an expert on my body language”.
Oscar sighed, eyes heavy.“Look clearly something is troubling you and you don’t want to tell me and that’s fine, but friends don’t hide things from each other. If something goes wrong it’s on me and I’m not going to stand back and just watch as you get eaten alive. I care about you Lando, truly. I hope you know that.”
“Yeah friends” the words felt bitter and foreign as they left his mouth. They were fighting words and he knew it.
“Come on Lando, don’t do this to me if you don’t want to be friends just say the words and I’ll be gone. But just promise me you’ll reach out to the team if something's wrong.” Oscar said slowly backing off.
A cloud of guilt slowly passed Lando’s mind, speaking to someone would probably be helpful to remove some of the weight from his shoulders. But he quickly caught himself, how would he ever become a world champion if he couldn’t handle something as simple as a troll. “I’ll talk to someone I promise.” Lando felt bad for lying, but too bad he and Oscar weren’t really friends.
Somewhat satisfied with that answer Oscar got up from his spot to leave, calling over his shoulder. “Good night Lando, try and get some sleep, we've got a big day tomorrow.”
By the time Lando realised Oscar had said Good night, it was too late to reply. Oscar had already managed to disappear under the cover of night. Lando found himself secretly hoping that one day he’d get it right with Oscar, tonight had been progress. But Lando couldn’t help himself, bottling it was now second nature, as he somehow managed to undo years of progress in a single night.
It always felt for every step they'd take in the right direction Lando seemed to always mess up and take three steps back. He lets the clip roll in the background. It’s raw. It’s real. It was definitely never meant for the public to see.
Monaco Grand Prix - Friday
Stepping into the paddock Lando had been washed with a feeling of unease, he hadn’t forgotten about what had transpired last night. From the anonymous dm to his secret escape with Oscar, it just seemed like the entire universe was out to get him. Doing his best to avoid potentially running into Oscar, Lando chose to enter through the back of the paddock, easily slipping in.
Lando had one objective, keep his head down and make it to the Mclaren motorhome without being stopped. Lady luck would again not be on his side, as mere moments after passing through the gate Lando was swarmed by none other than Charles and George.
“You alright there Lando? You're looking a bit, how do I say this, peaky”. George questions.
“God could everyone just stop asking me that, I wouldn’t be here if something was wrong.”Lando grumbles.
“Geez what crawled up your ass and died.” Charles tried to joke.
Lando was having none of it and just wanted to be left in peace he bit back. “Look if you have something important to say, tell me now or forever hold your peace because I am not in the mood today.”
George and Charles were slightly caught off guard by Lando’s sharp response, growing up with Lando they both knew that Lando was prone to having mood swings. But this was the first time either Charles or George had seen him act this way, and he knew it was off putting. He could tell by the looks on both their faces.
George cleared his throat “oh yeah, right back to business we have a drivers council meeting tomorrow and before you ask, no you can not skip attendance is mandatory. There’s been wind of a plot to harm us drivers, so we need to create a plan to stick together.”
Lando was taken aback, it looked like his little problem had just gotten a whole lot bigger. Trying to act casually, he asks George. “Oh my god has something happened, is everyone alright?”
“Look I can’t really discuss what I know because we are out in the open and anyone could be listening. But don’t worry, all will be revealed at the drivers council, which is exactly why attendance is mandatory.” George replied.
Trying to lighten the dampened mood Charles joked again. “10 bucks says Max is a no show tomorrow.” It fell short as the tension in the paddock continued to rise.
George however did not take this lightly. “This isn’t a laughing matter Charles, someone out there has made some serious accusations, and I’m talking about career ending material. So I’ll be damned if Max refuses to get his head out of his ass long enough to attend the council.”
Charles, taking in the serious tone George used, realised something deeper must be going on. “Oh I didn’t realise it was that serious. Don’t worry about Max I’ll make sure he shows up, you just focus on keeping everyone safe.”
“Thank you Charles, now Lando if you hear or see anything that isn’t right report it. It could potentially save a life” George ordered.
“I’ve got my eyes and ears pealed, I’ll catch you guys later on track.” Lando mumbled as he turned his back on the pair, continuing on to Mclaren. Lando couldn’t wait to get back to his room, and just hide away from everyone.
The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet.
The soundproofed walls of the Monte Carlo suite muffled everything: the traffic below, the sea breeze, even his own thoughts, until all that was left was the low hum of anxiety crawling under his skin. Lando shut the bathroom door behind him with a soft click and leaned against it, forehead pressed to the cool wood. His breath hitched before he even knew it was happening.
He slid down to the tiled floor, legs folding in on themselves, his phone clutched tight in his hand like it could offer something more than evidence of his own unraveling.
He pressed play.
The voice on the recording was his, but not the version anyone ever saw—not the Lando on press day or in the paddock, not the one laughing with Oscar over memes between sessions. This version was cracked and uncertain, raw in a way that made his stomach knot every time he heard it.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore. What’s the point if I always come second?”
His voice trembled in the clip. He could hear himself holding back sobs. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a breakdown. It was something worse: honest.
That recording had never been meant for anyone but himself. It was just a voice memo—one he made after Abu Dhabi last year, when he’d sat on the floor of a team hotel room for hours, staring at the wall, trying to make sense of losing by half a second and feeling like he’d lost everything.
And now a stranger had it.
He stared at the screen. The play bar moved steadily toward the end, and he hated how familiar those words felt. He hadn’t said them in months. Hadn’t needed to. He’d been fine lately, hadn’t he? Better, even. Laughing more. Sleeping sometimes. Talking to Oscar without holding his breath.
But hearing it again made the illusion shatter. He was still that version of himself, wasn’t he? The one who wondered if he was just pretending to be enough, fast enough, worth enough.
The room was starting to blur at the edges. He blinked. His thumb hovered over the screen.
Delete it. Delete everything. That would be the easy option.
Erase the voice memo. Block the anonymous account. Bury the proof. Pretend it hadn’t happened.
But he didn’t move.
Instead, he opened the voice memo app again. New recording. Blank screen. Empty space.
He sat there for a while, the seconds ticking up in silence, the only sound of his breathing, sharp at first, then slower. He let his head fall back against the door. The tile was cold beneath him. The air smelled like mint toothpaste and overpriced hotel soap. His hand was shaking a little.
He didn’t know what he was trying to say. Maybe there was nothing to say. Maybe that was the point.
He brought the phone closer, near his mouth, and inhaled once—deep, intentional.
Then he whispered, quiet enough that it almost didn't register:
“You’re okay. You’re still here.”
The words hung there, suspended, weightless.
Not profound. Not poetic. Just… real.
He listened to the silence after he said them. It felt fuller somehow. He didn’t cry. He didn’t smile. He just sat, holding his phone like it might start glowing, like it might absorb the truth of what he’d just said and feed it back to him when he needed it.
He stopped the recording.
He didn’t play it back.
He didn’t delete it either.
Maybe it wasn’t about erasing things. Maybe it was about choosing what stayed.
For a second, he thought about sending it—to Oscar, maybe. No context. Just so someone else would know he was trying. But his thumb hovered again, and this time he locked the phone instead.
Some things were just for him.
Outside, Monte Carlo glowed in the early evening golden light spilling over glass balconies and superyachts, photographers snapping drivers still pretending everything was fine. They’d all be posting tomorrow like nothing happened. Even him. Especially him.
But inside this small, tiled room, where he didn’t have to be anyone, he had made a choice: the leak could take his words, but not their meaning. It could expose his lowest moment, but it couldn’t define the next one. That belonged to him.
Lando stood slowly, stretching limbs that had curled in too tightly, and caught his reflection in the mirror. There were shadows under his eyes. He didn’t look like McLaren’s golden boy. He looked tired. Human.
He let out a breath.
Lando was rudely awoken by the sound of pounding on his hotel door at 2am. Opening the door he was greeted with something not even his wildest dreams could create. There stood none other than his teammate Oscar, his face pale glistening with sweat that made his shirt cling to all the right places. Phone in hand.
In his sleepy state Lando couldn’t quite pick up on the urgency of Oscar's actions. “Look, I can't quite imagine why you're standing outside my door at 2 am in the morning of the most important qualifying session of the year. But I’m gonna need you to leave.”
“It’s out,” Oscar said, breathless.
Lando didn’t need to ask what he meant. He already knew.
The recording was online.
Followed by the caption “Even F1’s golden boy has his limits.”
Not just leaked. Posted. Shared. Spinning across social media with commentary and breakdowns and memes already forming in the cracks. He could see the guilt in Oscar’s face, like he was the one who’d let it happen. He wasn’t.
Lando stepped aside, letting him in.
No words passed for a moment. Just a look—one that said I’m here and I hate this and what do we do now?
Then Lando spoke, voice steady despite everything.
“I don’t care,” he said, lying just a little. “I’m still here.”
Oscar looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.
And for the first time since that recording had surfaced, Lando believed it might be true.
Lando remained motionless, eyes fiercely locked onto the screen. The words burned into him. No one knows who is leaking. No one knows what’s coming next. But this just got personal.
Chapter 2: Unfiltered
Summary:
Lando's still suffering but this time he's not alone, it's Oscars time in the spotlight. Oscar and Lando are still confusing as ever.
Notes:
Welcome to chapter 2 and thanks for all the love on my previous chapter. Writing this chapter included a lot of blankly staring at my screen hoping to words would just jump out. It's finally race week again is everyone excited? Also Valtteri to Cadillac soft launch so much is happening. Please forgive my atrocious formatting AO3 is a nightmare
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monaco Grand Prix - Saturday
Pov: Oscar Piastri
Oscar had always believed in silence—the kind that steadied your hands before a race, or masked your fear in front of cameras—but the silence between him and Lando this morning felt like drowning.
Sitting in the Mclaren motorhome feels like suffocating, from the ever growing presence of Mclaren staff to the new security measures installed overnight. Waiting by the breakfast bar, everything in the room felt wrong. But the world kept spinning, the usually lively space felt cold and uninviting, a complete 180 from last week's vibes. The cereal ever so lovingly placed in front of him, by a concerned member of his pit crew remained untouched. Taunting Oscar as it turned soggy. He could see the strain on everyone's faces, the team were trying to create a united front and pretend business was usual. But this was anything but that.
Oscar letting his gaze fall ever so slightly to the right in doing so he caught sight of Lando who was supposed to be reviewing race data but instead he was sat staring blankly at the screen ahead. Oscar hoped Lando wasn’t trying to fool anyone into believing he was fine, cause if he was he’d been doing a shit job at it. He let his mind wonder how Lando could sit there and look so peaceful, as his life was actively falling apart.
The leaked voice note had gone viral overnight, already being picked up by the likes of sky sports and f1 tv, f1 twitter was a wildfire and the paddock was secretly whispering. As the tweets pilled in, Oscar prayed that Lando didn’t have access to any of his social media platforms. While there had been a wave of initial support.
@tracksidewithLN
“Don’t listen to any of the hate Lando keep pushing and hold your head high don’t let a troll define you”
@ln4inmyheart
“This is just a small bump in the road we’ll be back to the top step in no time lad”
@soft4lando
“Uggg this is so not ok shame on whoever decided to leak this, this was clearly a private moment Lando is such a lovely person it hurts to see he constantly gets hate”
@LandoLaughs
“If I have to sacrifice my first born for the Lando be free of hate I wouldn’t hesitate"
However the original wave of support was short lived it didn’t take very long before the hate comments came rolling in and they came in hot. Some tweets and comments were so vile they made Oscar physically sick. It almost felt like people on the internet sometimes forget that drivers are humans and therefore can express emotion. The standard that Lando was held to relative to everyone else on the grid was unlike he’d ever seen.
@NorrisSpinsIt
“jumping for joy I HATE LANDO NORRIS THIS IS A GOOD DAY TO BE ALIVE”
@PuntedByPiastri
“Nobody is more fun to hate than Lando Norris loool he’s gonna leave you satisfied and smiling every time.”
@McLarenMinisterOfPain
"Oscar deserves hazard pay for being Lando’s teammate and therapist."
@BlameNorris
"Lando Norris is proof that vibes alone do not win championships."
The leak had done what no track, no rival, no sprint race ever could.
It had silenced Lando Norris.
Oscar watched him, trying to read the tiny shifts in his teammate’s posture. The hunched shoulders. The hair not quite styled like usual. The sunglasses perched on his head indoors—like some half-hearted armor. Lando kept scrolling on his tablet with dead eyes, pretending he was reading telemetry, pretending everything was normal. Pretending he hadn’t had the most private moment of his life splashed across the internet like a headline.
Oscar's stomach clenched. He hated this part—the part where there was nothing to fix.
He’d always been someone who kept his head down, did the work, and stayed out of the line of fire. That was the unspoken code of surviving the F1 machine. The quieter you were, the longer you lasted. If you made no waves, you didn’t sink. Simple.
But now Lando was sinking. Right in front of him.
And Oscar didn’t know how to pull him out.
Just be there. That’s what people always said, right? Just be present.
He’d tried that before.
Oscar’s grip tightened on his water bottle, fingers tapping against the plastic. His mind drifted—unwelcome but vivid—to a moment he hadn’t let himself think about in months.
It was Suzuka, late in the 2025 season. Tensions were high. McLaren were in a tight constructors’ battle with Mercedes, and the weight of back-to-back podiums had started pressing down on Lando like gravity.
They’d come out of a brutal debrief—one of those days where the sim data didn’t match the track performance and everyone was quietly, politely panicking. Oscar remembered walking into the tiny meeting room and seeing Lando already sitting at the table, hands white-knuckled on his phone, not speaking.
By the time the engineers had left, Lando’s breathing had turned shallow. The room was too quiet. The air too thin.
Oscar had paused in the doorway, unsure what to do. Then, without saying anything, he’d walked over, grabbed a bottle of water, and handed it to Lando.
Lando hadn’t said a word, but he’d taken it like it was a lifeline. Oscar had sat beside him, far enough to give space, close enough to be a presence. They’d just sat like that—no talking, no fixing—until Lando could breathe again.
It had been enough that day.
But this? This felt different.
This was the world watching him break.
And Oscar could feel the questions tightening around his own throat, like invisible fingers: What if I say the wrong thing? What if I don’t say anything at all?
He looked up.
Wanting to break the ice Oscar opted for light conversation, he wanted ever so desperately to know what was going on up there in Lando's pretty little head. “Hey mate are you doing alright, it’s ok if you aren’t. You just had your privacy majorly violated. It would be totally understandable if you were a menace on track today.”
Lando looked up making eye contact for the first time, his eyes sunken deep into his face, rimmed red and puffy. “It’s fine. It’s old. I don’t care” Lando deflected.
Oscar knows it’s a lie. He’s been Lando’s teammate long enough to recognize when he’s doing damage control—especially to himself. “I get it you don’t want to talk but you sure as hell don’t look like someone who is fine.” He gently pushed.
“Can you and everyone around just stop treating me like I'm made out of glass. I’m not fragile. Now let's focus on what's more important, we are here to race, not have a therapy session.” Lando replied as he collected his things to prepare for practice.
Oscar could see a new emotion forming across Lando’s face and he didn’t like it one bit. “You can’t run away from this forever you know—this isn’t the kind of scandal that dies down overnight. The longer you keep pretending not to feel hurt, the worse the situation will become. And trust me when I say this all the pain you’ve been hiding is going to catch up to you one day and you’ll end up deep in a spiral you can’t ever come back from.”
“When did you get so wise, I’m the elder driver. I lead the team, not you. So don’t come telling me how to live my life, you don’t know the shit I've been through. Do you know how hard I’ve worked— all the sacrifices I’ve made just to get to this point.” Lando's voice trailed off.
“Lando, I really don’t want to fight with you but just remember every time you go on track, you don’t have anything to prove—not to the haters, not to the team and especially not to me. I think you're forgetting that we drivers are human, we’re not always going to be perfect.”
“That’s awfully righteous coming from you, between the two of us who has a drivers championship and who doesn't. And in case you might have forgotten it’s not me. So you're wrong everytime I step out on track I have something to prove—something to fight for. I’m the one who is getting death threats, my seat in F1 isn't guaranteed so many people would kill to be in my shoes. ” Lando’s patience was beginning to wear thin, what wasn’t clicking in Oscar's mind.
Oscar felt like he’d had a bucket of cold ice water dumped on his face. But he hadn’t. “You're getting death threats?” His voice shook as he spoke.
“Isn’t it ironic how you said not even a minute ago, you didn’t want to fight with me. Well look what we’re doing now genius.” His tone dripped in sarcasm.
Oscar positively despised this new dynamic with Lando. Ever since going head to head in the championship last year any time the pair would try to talk it would almost always exclusively end in a fight. He sometimes wished he could go back to the days where he was a rookie and Lando didn’t dare speak to him without being prompted. Something had to be better than whatever they had going on now.
“Don’t turn this back on me, you're the one who’s refusing to admit there’s something wrong. If you don’t want to sit here and talk like grown adults, then walk away. You might be done fighting—but just know I’m never going to be done fighting for you.” Oscar spoke, this time his voice was fierce but level.
Lando was never usually one to back down from a fight, but deep down he knew there was no chance of a win. So he backed off and retreated to his driver's room in an attempt to clear the room. When Lando thought Oscar was out of ear shot he whispered to himself “God why doesn't he hate me my life would be so much easier if he did”
Oscar was floored, he’d never in a million years think about hating Lando. It hurt his heart to know Lando believed in such nonsense. Collecting his breath, he took a moment to survey the room. Mclaren staff scramble to pretend like they were working. Oscar would almost believe the team weren’t ease dropping, but he wasn’t born yesterday. However the team weren’t actors so none of the mechanics had a subtle bone in their body.
He hated fighting with Lando in front of the team, it was always violent and messy, never ending well and today was no exception. He was aware the team had gotten used to the constant fighting, having witnessed both their drivers consistently being at each other's necks. Oscar knew one thing for certain, this definitely wasn’t the end and he really didn’t want to stick around long enough to see the fall out.
Zac had managed to find himself witnessing the latest showdown from the corner of the room. When he’d initially signed Oscar in late 2022 he’d been filled with nothing but excitement. The prospect of having two young and talented drivers on the same team had seemed like a recipe for success.
He’d been made aware by Mark that Oscar had gained himself a little bit of a reputation in the lower formulas for being a teammate eater. Zac had initially laughed in Mark's face, precious sweet little Oscar being a teammate destroyer. Yeah right Zac thought to himself.
Now flashforward just four short years Zac was left feeling nothing but a sense of deep regret, his dismissal of Oscar was coming right back to bite him in the ass. It left him frequently wondering how Toto had managed to remain standing during the silver wars. Zac had unknowingly bought himself first class seats to witness a war. This was a secret he’d be taking to the grave.
Oscar knew if he didn’t try to at least make it up to Lando, he would be stuck driving around with a guilty conscience. And that was the last thing he needed especially at a track like Monaco where qualifying means everything.
The emotional fall out after every fight was horrendous, with Lando being too proud to admit his wrongdoings. Oscar always ended up having to bear the burden to be the first to apologise. Constantly having to be the one to mend their already fractured relationship was beginning to take its toll. He didn’t know how many times more his body could produce the word sorry before it shut down.
Oscar didn’t know at what point he became attached to the idea of saving Lando, the only thing he knew for sure was now he was in too deep with no way out. He was falling and it was all his fault.
Giving Lando the time and space to be alone for a while, would normally be the first steps Oscar would take to forgiveness. Unfortunately for him Monaco was anything but normal, with the margin of error razor thin. Oscar couldn’t afford to fuck up his appology, and by the way things were looking he definitely didn’t have enough time to follow plan A.
This meant it was time to to implement plan B. Emotional manipulation. With no time to spare before practice Oscar made the short dash to Lando’s room, praying he was inside. Upon reaching the door, Oscar paused hesitating just for a moment.
That split second was all it took before he began to regret his plan, emotionally manipulating someone that was going through a crisis would be highly unethical. If he went ahead he’d be earning himself a one way ticket to hell. But hey he caught himself thinking, desperate times call for desperate measures. And boy was his situation desperate.
Getting his emotions in check, he worked up the courage to knock. Nobody answered. Oscar however wasn’t easily fooled. He could hear the rugged sounds of Lando’s laboured breath bouncing off the door.
Oscar stands outside the closed door, back to the wall, arms folded. He tries again.
He doesn't knock this time. Just waits.
“Oscar, just go,” Lando’s voice comes through the door, muffled and tired.
Oscar exhales. Then, calmly:
“You always do this.”
Silence.
“Push people out before they can choose to stay. It’s impressive, really.”
No answer.
Oscar shifts, then leans his shoulder to the door, voice quieter now—measured.
“You think you’re protecting yourself. I get it. If you’re the one who leaves first, you don’t have to wonder if someone else would’ve walked away.”
A pause.
“But I didn’t walk away, Lando. I never even moved.”
Inside the room, something creaks — maybe a chair, maybe just tension. Oscar doesn’t know.
“I know what you’re doing in there,” he continues, voice still soft but sharp now, just a little colder. “Running over every word I said. Rewriting the fight in your head until you’re the villain and I’m just another person you think you’ve hurt too much to fix.”
His jaw tightens, but his tone stays even.
“And if you want to believe that—fine. If you need to make me your excuse not to come out, I won’t stop you.”
A longer silence now. Oscar lets it sit. Then:
“But you’re not scared of what I said.”
He moves closer to the door, now just inches away.
“You’re scared because I saw you. Because I didn’t look away when you broke. Because I stayed.”
There’s a soft breath from behind the door.
Oscar lowers his voice again, almost a whisper now.
“And you don’t know how to live with being seen.”
Another beat. Then:
“But I’m still here.”
Quiet.
Still quiet.
Then—the soft click of the door unlocking.
Oscar steps back just as the handle turns. The door opens a few inches.
Lando stands there, hoodie half-on, eyes red rubbed raw.
He doesn’t say anything.
Oscar lifts a brow. “Took you long enough.”
Lando huffs something between a sigh and a laugh, looks away, ashamed and grateful all at once.
Oscar doesn’t push it. He just holds the door open a little more, and Lando walks out into the hall beside him.
No hug. No apology. Just silence—and that hum of something fragile being rebuilt.
“You want to go for a walk before briefing?”
Lando didn’t even look at him. “Don’t feel like being looked at.”
Oscar nodded slowly. He knew what that meant. Cameras were everywhere this weekend—eager for any facial expression they could twist into a headline. The thought of Lando, still fragile from last night’s leak, being hounded through the paddock made Oscar’s jaw tense.
He stood anyway. “We could take the back stairs down to the harbor,” he offered. “There’s usually no one there before FP3.”
This time, Lando looked at him—just a flicker of something behind his eyes. Fear, maybe. Or gratitude. It was hard to tell when he was this walled off.
Eventually, he nodded.
Ten minutes later, they were walking along the back path between hospitality and the harbor entrance, tucked behind steel barriers and half-empty sponsor tents. No cameras. No fans. Just quiet.
Oscar kept a careful distance—close, but not too close. He wasn’t sure if Lando wanted space or presence or both. He was guessing. He hated guessing.
The breeze from the water was cool and steady, a rare bit of calm. Monaco’s skyline glimmered in the late morning light, but Oscar barely noticed it. His focus was entirely on the man walking beside him.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Oscar said finally. His voice felt stiff in his throat. “The voice note. No one should’ve heard that.”
Lando didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “It’s not like it was wrong.”
Oscar frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That recording. Everything I said in it—I meant it. Still do, some days.” Lando exhaled. “So it’s not like it’s a lie.”
“That doesn’t make it okay that they leaked it.”
Lando didn’t respond. Just shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie and looked out at the water. Oscar watched the side of his face—how his jaw clenched, the twitch at the corner of his eye.
“I keep thinking,” Lando murmured after a while, “about how I always try to be… fun. Y’know? Make people laugh. Play the part. Maybe if I was more serious—less of a clown—people would’ve cared that I was hurting.”
Oscar shook his head sharply. “That’s not fair. You do make people laugh. That doesn’t mean they get to mock you when you’re in pain.”
Lando looked over at him, surprised.
Oscar swallowed, then looked away. His heart was beating too fast. The words had come out harder than he expected.
A gull screeched overhead, and Lando chuckled quietly. It was the first sound that didn’t sound like defeat.
“You’re terrible at pep talks,” Lando said.
Oscar almost smiled. “I’m not trying to give you one.”
“Oh?”
“I’m just… here.”
Lando looked at him for a long moment. Really looked.
And then—softly, like he was saying it more to himself than to Oscar—he said, “Yeah. You always are.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was warm. Shared. Oscar exhaled slowly, letting the tension start to unspool from his chest.
Maybe he didn’t have the right words. Maybe there weren’t any. But he could be here. Be consistent. Be the person Lando didn’t have to perform for.
Eventually, they started walking again.
As they rounded the bend, a staff member appeared from the corner with a clipboard. “Oh—there you two are. Media briefing’s in twenty. Zak’s looking for you, Lando.”
Lando flinched, barely perceptible—but Oscar caught it.
“I’ll meet you there,” Lando said. His voice was steady, if a little tired.
Oscar gave a small nod and started to walk ahead—but paused. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he turned back, touched Lando’s sleeve gently, and murmured:
“Text me if you need a way out. I’ll cover.”
Lando’s eyes flicked down to where Oscar’s fingers brushed his arm. His mouth moved, like he wanted to say something—but all he managed was a breath.
“Thanks.”
Oscar didn’t wait for more. He just nodded again and walked away—heart hammering.
He didn’t fix anything. Not really.
But maybe, just maybe, it was enough—for now.
It’s right before qualifying when Oscar's reputation as the ice boy is destroyed. Another leak. This time it’s about him. It’s a photo of his younger self sitting outside a therapist's office.
@Anonomyous posted 1minute ago
[OP81jpeg.]
“Laddies and Gentlemen may I present to you the so called championship leader”
“Looks like another one bites the pressure”
Oscar knows that photo, it’s from three years ago. And he hadn’t told anyone about that time— not even his family. Oscar knew eventually his time in the headlines would come, he had prepared. Or so he thought, nobody ever taught him what to do when your life gets exposed online.
So there he was standing stuck frozen in time. Seeing the photo that had plagued so many of his sleepless nights, awakened something deep within. Without permission his mind was instantly transported back in time to that fateful day three years ago.
It was early 2023 sometime shortly before the Miami Grand Prix, Oscar was only 4 races into his F1 career and he already wanted to give up. The MCL60 was a shit box to drive, the team was a mess, his new teammate hated him. Hell at this point he was probably considered the laughing stock of the f1 paddock. He’d been without a seat for a year, stuck in clutches of the void that was Alpine with no escape. That was until Mclaren offered him a life line— a full time seat in a podium scoring car. The move would be simple. However what went down was anything but. One day he was signing a contract and then seemingly overnight he was in court being sued by Alpine.
If Oscar had known the hell he’d be getting himself into by putting pen to paper, he wouldn't have made such a fateful mistake. But here he was front and centre of a worldwide media strom with no end in sight. Everyday he’d wake to a news article dragging his name through the mud calling him all sorts of names for abandoning Alpine and stealing Daniel’s seat. He hadn’t even taken part in his first f1 start and he already had a reputation that preceded him.
So by the time Bahrain rolled around he was excited to prove all the haters wrong and show why he deserved a full time race seat in F1. Qualifying came and went P20. Terrible. His only source of relief was Lando being P19. Sunday, race day. The day he had dreamed about for so long was finally here. By lap 15 the dream had ended. Retirement. He’d bet a million dollars somewhere in the paddock Otmar was enjoying his just desert. What was supposed to be a day of redemption had turned into a nightmare Oscar so badly wanted to wake up from.
Miami would prove to be no different, podium worthy car my ass he found himself bitterly whispering after the race. P19. Another weekend without points. The hate was beginning to heat up. The first calls for him to lose his seat came—from Daniel fans no doubt. It didn’t take long before the dark thoughts rolled in, Oscar tried to fight them. He really did.
It was too late.
He gave into the temptation.
His demons were out to play.
The shower was still running. Oscar sat on the closed toilet lid, towel limp over his shoulders, water dripping from his hair onto the tile. He hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes.
He’d messed up. Badly.
A lock-up in Turn 1, a slow pit stop he couldn’t control, a desperate dive bomb that cost him a wing and three positions. Lando finished P17. Oscar P19.
No interviews. No debrief. No noise. He said he felt sick, which wasn’t a lie. The nausea had started when the car stopped and hadn’t left him since.
The mirror fogged, mercifully. He didn’t want to see himself. Not like this. Not the version of him who disappointed everyone. Again.
He stood up slowly, gripping the counter with wet hands, bones pressing hard against porcelain.
In the minibar, he found a small bag of almonds. He opened it, stared, closed it again. Then opened it. Then dumped the contents into the bin.
He didn’t deserve it. Not after today.
This was how it worked. Race badly, eat less. Speak less. Be less.
Oscar didn’t have Lando’s magnetism, Charles’ fire, or Max's godlike talent. He had quiet, data, and discipline. Control.
But today he hadn’t even had that.
He took a deep breath, then pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. Beneath the notepad and pen was the cheap plastic hotel sewing kit. He stared at it.
Just pressure. Just to feel something real. To make the chaos quiet.
He gripped the tiny seam ripper between his fingers. It was dull. Good. It meant it wouldn’t do anything permanent. It would just remind him. That he was still here.
Oscar dragged it once—light, just enough to sting. A whisper of red bloomed. His breathing slowed. The panic receded like a wave.
He hated this. Hated that he needed it. But the storm in his head—shame, self-loathing, noise—was quieter now.
He leaned against the bedframe, knees pulled up, wrist hidden in his hoodie sleeve. The silence felt heavier than before.
Oscar was beyond fucked. 250 days of sobriety down the drain— all because he couldn’t control his urges. Pathetic. How weak could he be?
He was supposed to be getting better—not relapsing. All the hard work he’d put in to leave therapy and now he was right back where he started. Staring down at his phone, handing hovering over a once familiar contact. He hesitated, shame taking over. He was supposed to be a prodigy— a future world championship winner. Not some kind of broken record.
Oscar
I fucked up.
Please help me.
Sent 10:47pm
Seen 10:47pm
Michelle
9am tomorrow, you have my whole day
Don’t forget to breathe Oscar, your a fighter don’t forget that we will work through this crisis together
Sent 10:48pm
Seen 10:49
Once Oscar got the appointment confirmation he started running around the room frantically shoving clothes into his suitcase, he’d be taking the first flight out tonight. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to face the team after such a shit performace—especially in his current fragile state. They’d probably think he was some kind of baby, maybe they’d wish Daniel stayed. He wouldn't blame them—he wasn’t making the kind of impression that warranted taking a seat from a respected veteran. This has got to be some kind of Karma for abandoning Alpine.
He didn’t sleep the entire night, too many thoughts running through his head.
Oscar kept the hood of his jumper up, even though it was nearly 28 degrees and the Monaco sun had already turned the pavement to white glare. The salt breeze off the marina made the air taste like memory—metallic, bright, sickeningly familiar.
He hadn’t meant to come here.
He’d landed in Nice early that morning, no entourage, no handlers, just a half-empty duffel bag and eyes rimmed in red. A McLaren staffer had tried calling once—he’d silenced the phone without looking. Lando had called too. Twice.
He hadn't answered.
The building was the same. Pale stone, ivy curling down its side like careful handwriting. The iron gate creaked when he pushed it open. It felt like a confession in itself—returning here. Like saying out loud: I’m not okay again.
His hands trembled faintly. The sleeves of his jumper were pulled down too far, covering the angry red lines hidden underneath. They were clumsy, not deep, not life-threatening. Just... angry. Like him.
The binge hadn’t helped. Neither had the purging afterward. His chest still ached, his throat raw. His skin felt foreign, stretched too tight, like a suit he’d grown out of but kept trying to wear because the cameras needed him to smile.
The receptionist didn’t say anything when he gave his name. Just nodded kindly and gestured toward the waiting room. A single person was leaving—an older woman with kind eyes who barely glanced at him. It was quiet here. Quiet like the inside of his own head hadn’t been in weeks.
He didn’t see the man across the street.
Didn’t see the phone rise.
Didn’t see the shutter click.
Didn’t see the zoom on the lens focused in on the way Oscar’s hoodie sleeves were tugged halfway down his palms, how pale he looked, how his shoulders caved inward like the world had won.
He just sat, still, in the corner chair, arms folded over himself like he could hold his bones together.
The office door opened.
“Mr. Piastri,” Michelle said gently, eyes already scanning him with that impossible-to-escape therapist gaze.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood up and walked past her into the room.
He didn’t sit down right away. Just stood by the bookshelf, looking at the faded plant in the corner. The one he remembered knocking over last year in a panic. She’d never replaced it.
Finally:
“I did something stupid,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
Michelle didn’t move.
“Do you want to tell me what?”
“I don’t know how to stop hating myself when I fail.”
Silence.
“Do you think you failed?”
Oscar looked at the floor, then at his arms. Then away.
Michelle didn’t interrupt the silence. She let it settle, soft as rain.
Eventually, he sat down. And when he did, his hands stayed shaking in his lap, but he didn’t hide them this time.
Outside, on a tabloid blog site not yet refreshed, a draft upload titled “Top F1 Driver Caught Entering Mental Health Clinic in Monaco After Mysterious Disappearance” sat waiting in the backend. The photo was already compressed. The headline just needed one final click.
Oscar had no idea.
Not yet.
Oscar stood in shock—his body fighting to stay up straight. He opened his mouth desperate to make a sound but nothing was coming out.
The air in the McLaren motorhome felt too sharp, too sterile, like it had been filtered through the silence no one wanted to break.
Oscar sat at the back corner of the driver lounge, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled against his lips. His phone lay face-down beside him on the leather sofa. It hadn’t stopped vibrating in the last twenty minutes. Mentions. Tags. Headlines. Questions.
He didn’t need to look. He already knew what he’d see.
His name was everywhere.
A leaked video—grainy, intrusive, and unmistakably real. A private moment, something never meant to be shared, clipped into thirty-second soundbites and dissected by millions of people who would never meet him. Fans. Journalists. Trolls. They were all pulling pieces of him apart like a machine under inspection.
He’d known it was coming—after what had happened to Lando yesterday, the way the media spun it, the way the paddock buzzed with thinly veiled pity. Still, knowing hadn’t softened the blow. It landed like a punch to the ribs.
Oscar hadn’t said a word since it happened. He’d gotten out of the car after FP3, stripped his helmet off, and walked inside without stopping for media. The team didn’t press. He could feel their eyes, though—kind, respectful, but careful. Watching him like he might crack if they said the wrong thing.
His chest felt tight. Not panic. Just… pressure. Like breathing through gauze.
The worst part wasn’t the leak itself—it was the echo of it. How everything felt tainted now. How something so personal had been made public, weaponized. There was no unseeing. No going back.
“Oscar.”
Lando’s voice was soft, like it didn’t want to startle him.
Oscar didn’t move.
He heard the footsteps approach before Lando sat down beside him—close, but not too close. The cushion dipped with his weight. Lando was quiet for a moment, and then:
“They’re all full of shit, you know.”
Oscar let out a faint breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t nothing either.
“I mean it,” Lando said. “The way they talk like they know you. Like they get to decide what it means.”
Oscar nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor.
“It’s not fair,” he said finally. His voice cracked slightly on the second word, and he swallowed hard. “It’s not even about what’s in the video. It’s that it’s out there. It was mine. And now it isn’t.”
Lando didn’t reply immediately. He just shifted slightly, leaned his elbows on his knees too, like he was trying to meet Oscar’s shape. Not mirror him—just stand with him inside the ache.
“I kept thinking yesterday,” Lando said, “that it would go away. Maybe if I ignored it, it would blow over. But every time I looked at my phone, it was still there. My voice. My thoughts. Stuff I never wanted anyone to hear.”
Oscar turned his head slowly. Lando looked tired. Not just physically—there was something frayed about him, like a wire stretched too long.
“I wanted to tell you I was sorry,” Oscar said. “That it happened to you first.”
Lando shook his head. “No ranking. It’s not a race we ever wanted to win.”
Silence lapsed again. It wasn’t awkward. It was heavy.
“They’re watching us differently now,” Oscar said after a while. “The team. The media. Even the fans. I can feel it. Like we’re fragile. Like we’ve been compromised.”
Lando nodded. “They want to see how we’ll break.”
“I don’t want to give them that.”
“You won’t,” Lando said quickly, firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”
Oscar gave a half-smile. “You barely said a word to me when we first became teammates.”
“I was intimidated.”
Oscar blinked. “Seriously?”
Lando smiled too, small and self-conscious. “Yeah. You were just so calm. Like nothing got to you. I thought, ‘Great, I’m the emotional one again.’
Oscar let out a low breath, the closest thing to a laugh either of them had managed all day. It broke some of the static in his chest.
“I’m not as calm as I look,” he said.
“I know that now,” Lando replied. “But I also know you’re still you. No matter what anyone says.”
There was something in the way Lando looked at him that made Oscar pause. It wasn't a pity. It wasn’t performative support. It was something steadier. Grounded. Like he’d chosen to stand beside him without needing a reason.
Oscar looked down at Lando’s hand, resting beside him on the cushion. It wasn’t touching him, but it was close enough to be a question.
He didn’t think—he just moved.
His fingers brushed against Lando’s, lightly, then stayed there. The contact was small, almost nothing. But it was everything.
Lando turned his palm, lacing their fingers together slowly, like asking for permission with every motion. Oscar let him.
It wasn’t romantic. Not yet. It was human. Unspoken. A lifeline in a storm neither of them had chosen to weather.
“You okay?” Lando asked quietly.
Oscar shook his head, honest. “Not really.”
Lando squeezed his hand. “Me neither.”
Another silence. But this one was different. Safe.
Outside, engines rumbled faintly on the harbor roads. Inside, two drivers sat in the corner of a world that only ever saw them in helmets and headlines, hands tangled quietly between them—refusing, for just a moment, to be anything but real.
They didn’t need to speak again. Not right away.
Because in the wreckage of something stolen, they’d found something the leaks couldn’t touch.
Each other.
The paddock felt different.
Oscar noticed it in the way the cameras lingered a second too long on him as he walked past. In the way reporters tilted their heads like they were trying to read something behind his eyes. In the way the crowd didn’t cheer or boo—just watched.
He’d qualified P5. A clean session. No mistakes. But it didn’t matter.
Not today.
He and Lando walked the length of the media pen in silence. Carlos had taken pole—but all Oscar could feel was the weight of a thousand headlines.
“Mental Health Meltdown: Is Piastri Crumbling?”
“McLaren’s Golden Boy Isn’t Untouchable After All.”
“‘Private’ No More—Fans Debate What Drivers Owe the Public.”
He’d stopped checking his mentions hours ago. It was a losing game. Every clip, every photo, every quote was out of context. And yet somehow it all stuck.
When they reached the Sky Sports mic, Oscar forced a smile. It was tight. Practiced. The kind he used when he had nothing left in the tank but still had to look camera-ready.
“P5,” the reporter greeted. “Solid result. Given everything swirling around you off-track—was it hard to stay focused?”
There it was. Not even subtle. Just straight in.
Oscar kept his eyes level, his voice measured.
“I’ve spent my whole career learning how to block out noise,” he said. “Today was just another day to prove I can.”
The reporter nodded slowly, like they were disappointed he hadn’t cracked. “Would you say what’s happening off-track is affecting team morale?”
Oscar didn’t flinch. “We’re united.”
“And mentally, how are you coping? Fans are concerned—”
He smiled again, thinner now. “Tell them I appreciate it. But I’m doing what I came here to do.”
They moved on. But the damage was done. And he knew that quote would be twisted into something like “Piastri Deflects Fan Concern.”
By the time he made it to the next stop—an international feed—Lando had joined him. Oscar gave him a sideways glance. Lando offered a small nod.
He’d gone through the same gauntlet the day before. His own private pain rebranded as headline fodder. Now they were both under the microscope.
“Lando,” the next reporter began, “you’ve been through a similar situation this week. Do you think there’s a pattern here?”
Lando’s expression didn’t change. “If you mean people getting their privacy violated, yeah. There’s a pattern. It’s disgusting.”
The reporter hesitated. “Some are saying it comes with the territory of being public figures—”
“No,” Lando said, voice hardening. “There’s a line. And it was crossed.”
Oscar exhaled slowly. He felt Lando’s presence beside him like armor. Not defending him, exactly. Just standing with him.
They took questions for another ten minutes. By the end of it, Oscar’s face felt frozen in place. Polite, composed, unreadable. But inside, he could feel himself shrinking.
When the cameras finally cut and the handlers started ushering them back toward the McLaren garage, Oscar paused. His chest was tight again, like the air wasn’t getting in right.
Lando slowed beside him. “Don’t let them twist you into someone else.”
Oscar looked at him. “I’m not.”
Lando didn’t look convinced.
“I’m just... tired,” Oscar admitted. “Of being picked apart like I’m not a person.”
Lando offered him a faint smile. “That makes you more of a person. Not less.”
They reached the motorhome and slipped through the doors. Inside, everything was quieter—lower lights, fewer eyes. Safe, or as close to it as anywhere in the paddock could be.
Oscar went to the locker area and peeled off his suit in silence. He could hear Lando rummaging for water bottles behind him.
“Socials team wants us to post something,” Lando said finally.
Oscar paused. “About what?”
“Whatever we want. Something human. Real. They’re hoping to control the narrative a little. Reclaim the story, or whatever.”
Oscar stared at his hands.
“What’s the point?” he asked. “Anything I say, they’ll just flip it. Make it seem weak. Or fake. Or calculated.”
“Then don’t say it for them,” Lando replied. “Say it for yourself.”
Oscar glanced back at him.
Lando held out his phone. “You don’t even have to write a caption.”
After a moment, Oscar took it.
He thought about what to post. Something raw? Something angry? No. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. But he was ready to say something.
He flipped the camera. It was front-facing—his eyes a little tired, his jaw clenched. But still him.
He snapped the photo.
No caption. No explanation.
Just a face.
Present. Unashamed. Not broken.
He handed the phone back. Lando looked at it and smiled, just a little.
“That’ll do.”
Oscar sat down on the bench, exhaling slowly.
“Think they’ll back off?” he asked.
Lando leaned against the locker beside him. “No. But we’ll handle it.”
Oscar let the silence settle, then looked up.
“We?”
Lando nodded. “Always.”
Just as he was about to leave for the night Oscar was stopped in his tracks by a loud shouting match taking place right behind the Mclaren hospitality. As much as he wanted to ignore the commotion, to be reunited with his bed after such a horrible day. His curiosity got the better of him and he couldn't help but believe something important was going down—something he needed to see.
He rounds the corner and the sight that greets him was very unexpected; it was none other than Max in a heated argument with someone from Redbull’s PR team. Oscar wasn’t able to hear much before the door slammed shut.
“If they leak anything about Charles, I’ll burn this entire system down”
Oscar freezes—he definitely wasn’t meant to hear that.
Watching all this unfold he couldn’t help but wonder: who’s next?
Notes:
Thanks for reading!!!!!
Hope y'all enjoy :)
Kudos and comments are always welcome and appreciated
Chapter 3: Control, or Something Like That
Summary:
Charles navigates rising tension after a leaked therapy clip exposes his private grief. During the Monaco Grand Prix, he races under immense pressure while Carlos leads. Haunted by expectations and past wounds, Charles narrowly avoids disaster.
Notes:
Welcome to chapter 3 there isn't anything too heavy this chapter but after the last chapter tags have been updated so make sure to keep that in mind going forward. It's finally race day in Monaco, normally its a day race but for the sake of the plot it's now a night race. Im also operating under a made up calendar so races won't be in normal order. My main goal was to get this out before Austria so Im glad that was able to happen.
I also spoke too soon while I was in the middle of writing my previous chapter my glasses snapped in half, while this may not seem like a big issue. I am as blind as a bat and rely heavily on my glasses daily, I also had a final presentation the next day and I currently live out of state for school. I had to spend the whole day running around my city desperately find someone to fix them turns out thats pretty impossible when you don't have branded frames. Definitely my fault for not having a back up pair but in my 10 years of wearing glasses I've never had a pair brake. I was able to find a fix after lots of begging which was embarrassing but in my defence I was desperate.
Anyway happy reading :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pov: Charles Leclerc
Sunday Race Day– Monaco Grand Prix
Charles wakes at 5:32 a.m. with the kind of stillness that feels like being buried alive.
The apartment is quiet, too quiet, perched high above the Monte Carlo harbor. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in early sun that bleeds gold over polished marble floors. No noise but the whisper of the sea far below, the mechanical sigh of a yacht’s generator somewhere in the distance, and the faint hum of blood in his ears.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
There is no alarm—he didn’t set one. He doesn’t need to anymore. His body runs on performance schedules, internalized call times, and anxiety sharpened into discipline. Rest is a concept that belongs to other people. He blinks at the ceiling.
Today is Sunday. Race day.
His jaw is already tight.
He rolls out of bed with the same efficiency he uses when climbing into the cockpit. No wasted motion. No indulgent stretch. Just a straight path to the bathroom where the cold tile greets his bare feet like a punishment. He brushes his teeth, combs his hair, and stares in the mirror as he shaves the light stubble from his jawline—he always does it before press days, before camera day, before Monaco , his cursed home.
He dresses himself immaculately, hair perfect, routine clinical—everything about him screaming in control.
But he wasn’t
Today, like every race weekend in this city, he’s expected to be perfect. The son of the principality. The prince of a crown that doesn’t exist. He glances at the mirror. His face is carved in control. That’s the only thing left, really.
Control.
That and the voice in his head that whispers: don’t fail here again. Not this time. Not in front of them.
The espresso machine whirs in the kitchen, and Charles counts his movements out like laps.
One pod. Two pumps of oat milk. Stir clockwise, twice. Sip, swallow, swallow again. No more. Just enough to stay sharp.
He leans against the counter and scrolls his phone.
The group chat with Carlos, Pierre, and Esteban is quiet. Lando and Oscar’s is a mess—memes and chaos and passive-aggressive silence ever since Lando’s leaked recording hit social media like a grenade earlier in the week.
Charles hasn’t messaged either of them. He doesn’t know what to say.
What do you say to someone whose vulnerability has just been dissected on international media, meme-ified, and repackaged by commentators as “mental fragility”?
His thumb hovers over Lando’s name.
Then moves.
Messages: 0. Missed calls: 0. Unsent drafts: 1.
He opens his Notes app, and there it is. The message he never sent Max, it’s dated nearly two years ago.
Dec 2024
I’m not angry. I’m just tired. You pretend you don’t care, but you do. That’s what makes it worse.
Don’t come to Monaco. I won’t be here.
We weren’t anything. You told me that. I’m just finally listening.
He stares at it. Selects it. Deletes it. Deletes the trash too.
His phone buzzes. Team schedule. PR briefing at 7:30. The race starts at 6. Strategy meeting with Bryan in between. Ferrari red, all day.
He takes one more sip of coffee and heads for the door.
The paddock is already swarming by 8 a.m. Fans line the fences with flags and posters, some of them with photos of Charles from years ago—smiling, younger, lighter. He wonders if they notice the difference. Wonders if he looks like someone else now.
It put Charles in a bad mood, he loved his fans dearly put constantly having people screaming your name for attention. Way too many people had become very entitled and down right began harassing drivers for autographs. It was exhausting—it didn’t help that this week they were racing in Monaco, his hometown.
The drivers council meeting was supposed to be held after Monaco, but after the second leak decided time was of the essence and that the rest of the drivers needed to be protected. It was a little unorthodox to have a meeting the morning before a race. But time was counting down. There would only be a few short hours of stability before everything went up in flames again.
The FIA meeting room was glossy, sterile and too cold as Charles walked in.He took a seat at the end of the long table, looking around to spot familiar faces he easily catches sight of Pierre in a heated discussion with Esteban. Of course those two would always find the time to argue even in serious times.
Taking another look he found Alex, Checo and Valtteri sitting in a huddle. Charles was slightly confused but brushed it off, he’d never seen those three interact and now they were having their own gossip session. Charles wanted to think about it more but weirder things were happening in the paddock.
It was then his eyes landed on George standing alone in silence, holding his papers stone faced. Charles knew he was in good hands if there was anybody who was going to get to the bottom of this it would be George. He had no reason to be worried—George was probably calling the meeting to say that the culprits had been found and dealt with.
Oh god how wrong he was.
A steady stream of drivers continued to pour in but no Lando or Oscar yet, he was beginning to wonder if they'd even show up. The room was getting louder and louder with each new arrival it was getting hard to even hear himself think.
Charles took a quick glance at his watch as it was getting closer to 9:15 and still 5 drivers were missing. George was probably going to end up having a brain aneurysm if he was kept waiting any longer.
Finally as the clock strikes 9:14 Lando and Oscar walk in side by side—everything stills.
Charles can see it written all over Lando’s face—he’s in pain masking it with a smile and his poor son Oscar’s not even trying to hide how he truly feels. His expression sharp around all edges, eyes sunken deep into his face giving the appearance he hasn’t slept in days. Oscar looked like he was barely able to keep himself up right, he was nowhere near race ready.
Charles can feel everyone is pretending nothing's happened, but he can feel that the air has changed—it’s now charged. Charles feels something deep and ugly stirring: anger. Not for what happened— but for the silence around it.
An FIA representative he vaguely recognised as Ronan Morgan the president of the drivers commission opened the meeting with some vague apology about the “data breeches”. The man couldn’t sound any more ingenious if he tried, Charles thought bitterly. If the Ronan’s body language was anything to go by it would seem he was apologising to Lando and Oscar directly.
The apology was definitely falling flat, neither of the pair made any acknowledgement, Lando with his face blank continued to stare ahead without making a sound. Oscar on the other hand was making intense eye contact with the floor, body not moving an inch. He looked like a frozen statue forever suspended in time.
The apology was followed up with some brief instructions on how to interact with the media, from what was and wasn’t acceptable to discuss with journalists and the punishments for breaking any protocol. All drivers would be placed under strict instruction not to engage with any hate published and to avoid answering any questions about the leaks. If asked a question drivers may either act confused and act like they have no idea or drivers are permitted to respond with no comment. If drivers fail to act accordingly fines and community service will be issued in accordance. In essence everyone was being ordered to continue as business was usual ignoring the horrible breach of privacy faced by other drivers.
Charles interrupts—breaking in his voice tight “This isn’t just a data breach. It’s someone gutting us from the inside and calling it news.” He wasn’t going to spend the whole meeting in silence, watching from the sidelines while the FIA did everything to protect their image but not the privacy and safety of their own drivers. It wasn't a surprise the FIA were planning on having everything swept under the rug but this was definitely a new low for the bastards in charge.
Something inside George snaps, and he immediately goes into director mode trying to mediate, suggesting a strategic comms response that would see the drivers all post words of support on their personal social medias and then release a joint press statement.
Pierre, similar to Charles was having none of this bullshit instead suggesting a boycott of post race media. “We shouldn’t give the fuckers an opportunity to even speak to us they got us into this shithole themselves!”
Charles knew deep down nobody wanted to address the elephant in the room—the drivers weren’t just being watched—they’re being hunted.
9:40 rolls around and by now the meeting is in full swing and only one person was still unaccounted for.
Max.
It wasn’t surprising to Charles that Max hadn’t turned up yet, he was known for being a notorious meeting skipper. But Charles was secretly hoping that Max would put his differences with the FIA aside and show up to support Oscar and Lando.
9:42 Max makes his appearance, casually strolling into the room without a care in the world. No apology, just a nod at the director as he takes a seat next to Charles. Their legs brush slightly as Max makes himself comfortable. Charles was refusing to make eye contact with Max, how could someone act so nonchalant when an active threat was looming.
If he had to make any guesses Jos had probably trained Max to never show any emotion besides anger. Charles of all people should know that he'd spent years growing up with Max. Countless nights spent in bed talking about the future where they’d both be racing in f1, maybe even one day they'd end up being something more. But it was always Charles who wanted something more, Max only ever cared about himself. It’s why Charles ended things—Max was never going to give him the emotional support he so desperately craved.
Minutes passed before Charles could bear to look in Max’s direction, he observes Max staring intently and Lando and Oscar. Appearing as if he had something to say but was holding back, Max turns making eye contact with Charles. His gaze holds steady refusing to back down, Charles takes the intense stare as an opportunity to look deeply at the eyes he once used to love. After how Max left him, he would never allow Max to walk all over him again and breaking eye contact would mean admitting defeat. And if there was one thing he hated more than the media it was losing—especially to Max.
Charles found himself tilting his head in a taunting manner as if to provoke Max to speak, fingers crossed he’d take the bait. Come on say something, Verstappen. You of all people should know what it feels like to be bullied by the media.
Max took the bait, clearing his throat as he spoke up coldly stating. “Whoever’s doing this, they’re not just exposing us. They’re deciding which parts of us the world gets to believe in.”
The rooms plunged into a deep silence again, leaving it to Max to leave everyone speechless. The silence spoke volumes. Gone was beating around the bush Max had said the quiet part out loud and there was no turning back now. It’s as if all the air in the room had been sucked out when Max opened his mouth, the quiet was becoming eerie. The growing tension was making the room a suffocating risk—Charles needed to get out—he was going to be sick.
Before he could be sick Oscar spoke up for the first time. Steady—calm, almost robotic. “I didn't consent to that video being recorded, let alone distributed. I want to know what this council is for—because right now it feels like we are all just here to look good for Netflix.
Lando shifts awkwardly. Charles can see it clear as day, Lando’s uncomfortable looking like he wanted the world to swallow him alive. He did have to agree with what Oscar had to say, right now the meeting wasn’t about protecting the drivers, it was about trying to make a profit. Charles hoped the FIA’s greed would come back to haunt them one day.
Charles shifted his attention from Lando to Oscar, his heart pounding. There’s nothing performative in Oscar’s voice—his tone was final. Somehow managing to sound broken, furious and resigned all at the same time.
He had so desperately wanted to console his pseudo son, but he didn’t know what to say and judging by the silence that had enveloped the room a second time. It appeared as if no one knew what to say. Was there even anything appropriate to say in the aftermath of such a traumatic invasion of privacy? Charles certainly didn’t think so.
Everyone in the room was a sitting duck at the mercy of whoever was behind the attack. Charles knew time was running out—he just prayed that when the day came he’d be ready. He leans forward, voice calm but edged like a blade. “Every one of us has had something unknowingly taken from us. For some of you, it could be a photo or a video. For others, it may be… something deeper. But if we don’t speak about what’s happening, we’re letting them choose our narrative. ”
Charles doesn't need to say ‘Oscar’. He doesn't need to say ‘Lando’. But it’s all there in his eyes. Standing up Charles addresses the room for a final time.“I’m done letting silence be our PR strategy. I’m done sitting here pretending I’m just a driver and not a person.” After he’s done he turns on his heels and storms out of the room, not even checking to see if anyone had followed. Charles only makes it a few steps out of the meeting room into the hallway, before he stops dead in his tracks.
Finally being able to think clearly Charles did the only thing that felt right—he collapsed against the wall curling up in the fetal position. It was a rather strange movement but it brought him a sense of comfort when in distress. He loses track of time, almost falling asleep; he hadn’t intended to storm out of the council. He knows first hand how much these meetings meant to George. Fingers crossed George wasn’t going to be too mad.
It wasn’t long after that Charles began to hear voices again, the meeting must be over he thought. He pulled himself up to be ready for when Carlos appeared so they could walk back to Ferrari together. Drivers began to pour out of the room, but Charles only had eyes for Carlos. Just as the pair were about to leave Charles heard a voice calling out for him.
“Charles wait—theres something important you need to know.” George exclaimed, his voice clipped.
Charles immediately whipped his head around, squaring his shoulder he replied.“Well you’ve got me here now, so start talking.” A beat passes and George hasn’t said anything, Charles studies his posture. If George's face or tone was anything to go by, whatever news he had certainly wasn't good. Charles knows he has to press George. “If you have something to say just spit it out, I don’t have all day”
George, caught off guard, stumbles over his words before suggesting. “I think we should have this conversation away from prying ears.”
Charles' heart had never dropped to his ass this fast before, George was never one to sugar coat. Charles knew the news was more than just bad—it was life changing. He wanted to run away straight into the arms of his maman—but he was a big boy and followed George to the end of the hall. During the short walk Charles tries to enjoy what's left of his peace.
George speaks in a low voice “I did some digging. These leaks… they’re not just coming from stolen files. Someone is feeding internal access logs to a journalist who’s only interested in certain names.” He hesitates, "Yours is next on their list.”
Charles freezes. Cold rushes through him. His whole world is about to go up in flames and he was going to be powerless to stop it. He knew they could only have one thing on him—Max. Instantly Charles was filled with guilt, not only would he be going down—he’d be taking Max with him too. And between the two of them Charles wasn’t the one with the most to lose. He just hopes that when the messages go public that Max could find it within his heart to forgive Charles for holding on to memories.
George takes the hint with Charles' silence and excuses himself and when he does Charles is hit with another thought. They’re not done with me.
He looks back toward the meeting room, where Max is still sitting, hands clenched on the table. Oscar and Lando have already disappeared into another room, whispers chasing behind them.
He’s halfway to the motorhome when someone bumps his shoulder—just slightly, not even hard, but deliberate. He turns, and of course, it’s Max.
Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. Red Bull pass dangling around his neck like a warning sign.
“Verstappen” Charles mutters, keeping it curt.
“You stormed out early," Max replies, voice low. “Very unusual.”
“You weren’t even there for half of it ,” Charles fires back.
Max’s jaw ticks. “Still playing poster boy for FIA reform?”
“You could try caring for other, Verstappen. Might make you look less—”
“Like someone with better things to do than sit around while the sport falls apart?” Max finishes for him, smiling thinly.
Their eye contact holds.
And holds.
For a second, Charles can’t move. The last time they were this close was that night in Abu Dhabi, at the end of the 2024 season. Champagne-drenched, furious, brilliant. Max had kissed him like he was trying to win something. Charles kissed back like he had something to prove.
Neither of them had ever spoken of it again.
Charles looks away first. “See you on track.”
In the garage, it’s chaos disguised as routine. Engineers shout numbers, mechanics buzz around with laptops and tire pressure sensors. Charles clambers around.
He twiddles his thumbs. Breathes—he needs to get on track.
The track is his only sanctuary.
Even here, he’s haunted.
Because beneath the data and telemetry and precision, there’s a part of him waiting for the world to crash again. For something else to break.
He thinks about the leak. Lando’s voice, unguarded and shattered, played on TV screens and TikTok reels and comment threads full of teenagers debating whether vulnerability made him weak.
And Charles thinks: they are gonna get me next.
After a quick warm up with Andrea, he returns to the garage and is met with silence—Xavi frowning at a data pad, the team principal whispering to someone with a concerned look, a McLaren engineer whispering to a Red Bull intern.
He wipes sweat from his forehead. Looks up.
The whole paddock has gone tense.
“Charles,” someone from comms says, breathless. “There’s—there’s been another leak.”
Charles already knows it’s him.
He doesn’t need to be told. He sees it in their eyes. The way everyone suddenly looks at him like he’s bleeding.
Back in the motorhome, he locks himself in the drivers’ room and opens his phone.
There it is.
A video screen recorded from a therapy app Ferrari introduced three seasons ago.
The clip is grainy, and the audio is clipped—but unmistakable.
His voice. Younger. Brittle.
"Sometimes I feel like I’m not really here. Like I’m just… continuing something someone else started. Jules. Papa. Even Arthur. I don’t know how to stop performing. If I do, I think I’ll disappear.”
It has 3.2 million views already.
Comments range from supportive to cruel to conspiracy-laced.
Charles sits down on the bench, hands trembling.
This is different.
This isn’t just a leaked radio message or a hot mic during an interview. This is his inner world . The part he hid even from his team. And now it belongs to everyone.
He should cry.
But instead, he feels nothing at all.
He needed to get away.
By late afternoon, the harbor is lit gold. The sounds of Monaco—jet skis, engine throttles, high heels on cobblestone—blur into white noise as Charles sits on a bench by the docks.
He hasn't spoken to anyone since the leak went viral. Even Carlos left him alone.
He watches a child run along the waterfront with a Ferrari cap. Wonders how long that kid will idolize him before he’s just another face in the history books. A nearly-was.
Then: a shadow.
Max.
Of course.
He doesn’t say anything. Just sits.
Charles glares at him. “Are you stalking me now?”
Max shrugs. “Monaco’s not that big.”
Silence.
“You read it?” Charles asks after a long pause.
Max’s answer is instant. “Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
Charles folds in on himself. “Are you going to mock me too?”
“No,” Max says simply. “Why would I? You said what no one else dares to.”
Charles lets out a hollow laugh. “That I feel like a ghost in my own skin? That I’m a fraud in a million dollar car? Very inspiring.”
Max shakes his head. “That you’re honest.”
The sincerity disarms him.
Charles turns, finally looking at him. “Why are you really here, Max?”
A beat.
Then: “Because I know what it’s like. To have the media constantly hounding you—trying to point out and profit from your flaws, remember 2021 hell even 2023.”
Charles looks away, ashamed. “I didn’t know what to say.”
Max sighs. “Neither did I.”
The silence stretches again, but it’s not as hostile this time.
Max adds quietly, “I don’t think you’re a replacement. I think you’re better than all of them, because you’re still racing like it matters.”
Charles doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t move either.
And when Max stands and walks away without another word, Charles doesn’t stop him.
But he doesn’t forget the look on his face either.
The grandstands were packed, the yachts bloated with champagne and influencers, but in his ears, all Charles could hear was the ghost of his own voice.
“I feel like a placeholder. Like everyone’s waiting for me to fail just to prove they were right about the other one.”
The leaked recording—the therapy tape—had only been twenty-three seconds long. But it had fractured something in him. Not because the world had heard it, but because it had been real. Too real. The kind of confession you make in a dim room, not a trending soundbite.
Now, his city—the one place he was meant to feel untouchable—felt like a trap.
He stood on the grid, P4. The red of his Ferrari suit felt too bright under the cameras. Ahead of him, Carlos stood tall on pole, confident and smiling, waving to fans with that effortless ease Charles sometimes hated him for. Behind him, Oscar was quiet in his helmet, P5, unreadable as always. And just ahead—one row up—Max sat still in his Red Bull, visor down, unmoving.
Max had surprisingly offered some words of comfort.
During the drivers' council meeting earlier, his voice had carried over the boardroom’s polished wood and corporate falsehoods.
"They’re deciding which parts of us the world gets to believe in."
It was the closest Max had ever come to sounding vulnerable. Charles wasn’t sure if it helped or made it worse.
He looked up at the sky. No clouds. Not even the weather would save him today.
"Thirty seconds," his engineer said over the radio.
Charles slid down into the cockpit, locking himself into the car like it was a tomb. His pulse pounded through the gloves. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he stayed still. If he just didn’t go. Let the lights go out and the world pass him by.
But that wasn’t who he was. Or maybe that was exactly who he was, and that was the problem.
The formation lap began. The cars crawled forward, weaving left to right in a ballet of precision. Charles could see the blur of fans waving from the casino balcony. Somewhere in that sea of cameras and flashbulbs, someone was waiting to turn his next mistake into a headline.
When the grid formed again and the five red lights blinked overhead, he found one clear thought amid the static.
Don’t give them more to use.
The lights went out.
Lap 1
Carlos launched cleanly from pole. George Russell, starting second, immediately came under attack from Max, who dove toward Sainte Dévote like he had nothing to lose
.
Charles held position through the chaos of the opening corners, barely squeezing past a sluggish Alonso. Behind him, he caught a flash of orange—Oscar was defending hard against Hamilton. Clean.
By Mirabeau, the field had settled. Carlos up front, Max sliding into P2 after a borderline legal move on George. Charles sat in P4, trapped between strategy and expectation.
"Gap to Verstappen: 1.3," his engineer said. "Pace looks good."
It didn’t feel good.
It felt like every nerve in his body was being scraped by gravel.
Lap 5
The radio crackled.
"Verstappen reporting graining. Sectors 2 and 3 dropping. Carlos holding steady."
Charles gritted his teeth. He could see Max ahead now, his Red Bull twitching slightly in the low-speed corners.
He remembered Max’s eyes during the meeting. The way he’d looked at Charles—not with pity. With recognition.
Charles wanted to close the gap. Not to pass. Just to remind Max that he wasn’t broken.
"Box Carlos soon?" he asked.
There was a pause.
"Negative. Carlos to stay out. Plan A for now."
Of course. He was always second strategy. Even here.
Monaco didn’t forgive.
Lap 9
The tunnel roared around him like a memory. Monaco’s only true high-speed section—dark, enclosed, beautiful. Like drowning in light.
He heard the words again. His own voice. Jules name. The therapist’s quiet breathing.
"Jules died chasing something he loved. And I’m scared I’m doing the same. Just slower."
He took the chicane too fast.
The rear twitched. For half a heartbeat, the car screamed at him—and then he caught it.
"Charles—watch exit chicane. You were late."
"Copy." But his voice was cold. Hollow.
He needed to wake up.
Lap 12
Oscar passed George. Clean, silent, precise.
Charles watched it on the big screen at Rascasse. Something about it struck him—the way Oscar moved on track like he belonged, even now, after everything. After his and Lando’s private video had been leaked. After being crucified in the media.
They didn’t hide.
Maybe that was the point.
The crowd erupted as Carlos crossed the line again. Still leading. Still calm. Max sat behind, patient, coiled. Charles knew that look. He’d seen it in Max’s eyes at Zandvoort. In the mirror at Silverstone.
That look meant: I’m waiting for you to blink.
Lap 15
Ferrari finally boxed Carlos.
"Box, box," came the call. Carlos dove in.
Charles stayed out, inheriting P1 briefly. It felt like a lie.
"Push now," his engineer said. "You’re racing Carlos on exit."
"Understood."
He floored it through Sector 2. Precision. Muscle memory. Monaco sang under his tires, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like control.
He dove into the pits the next lap.
A clean stop.
But when he rejoined, he was behind Max and Carlos. Third again. No strategy magic. No luck.
Just… third.
Lap 18
Max was catching Carlos.
Charles could see it happening, second by second. Carlos was defending, but Max was relentless. The Red Bull shadowed every corner, waiting for blood.
The radio cut in: "We believe Verstappen may attempt into Nouvelle Chicane."
"Let him try," Charles muttered.
It wasn’t even about points anymore. It was about the inevitable.
Max moved.
Into the tunnel. Too soon. Too fast.
"Carlos—defend!"
Too late.
At the exit, Max lunged down the inside. Carlos swerved. Their tires kissed.
And then—Carlos was in the wall.
The red Ferrari spun sideways into the barrier at Portier. Smoke. Carbon shards.
"Carlos is in the wall! Yellow flag, yellow flag!"
Charles barely had time to react. He shot past the wreck, rubber screaming, pulse exploding in his chest.
The safety car was deployed. The race was neutralized. But the chaos was just beginning.
Lap 21 – Under Safety Car
"Carlos status?" Charles asked. His voice cracked.
"He's okay. He's out of the car."
He exhaled. Barely.
"Verstappen under investigation for contact."
Of course he was.
Charles looked at Max’s car ahead. No damage. Just him, coasting like it was any other Sunday.
The rage that filled Charles wasn’t clean. It was complicated. Because part of him wanted to scream at Max. And another part—
Another part remembered how Max had sat beside him in silence after the leak, saying nothing, just existing. Like someone who understood.
And now he had taken Carlos out.
Or had he?
Charles didn’t know what to feel.
But he knew what he wanted.
"Tell me when we’re racing again."
Lap 25 – Safety Car Ending
"Safety car ending this lap."
Charles tightened his gloves. P2 now. Max ahead. Oscar behind.
The restart was smooth.
The fight wasn’t.
Lap 27–30
Charles hounded Max through Sector 1. Oscar was on his tail. The three of them ran nose to tail like dancers on a wire.
Charles could see Max’s rear wing twitching. See the stress.
He thought about all the things they’d never said. About the way Max looked at him, like he saw straight through the silence.
And then he thought about Carlos. His car in the wall. His pole position was gone.
You don’t get to win like this.
Lap 32
Approaching the tunnel again.
The radio flared: "Push now. He’s vulnerable."
Charles did.
He pulled alongside Max on the tunnel exit, their cars nearly touching.
Into the chicane—they were side by side.
And then—
Oscar dove up the inside.
Three cars.
One corner.
Too tight.
Metal screamed.
Tyres locked.
The screen flashed red.
Charles’s vision spun.
For one terrible moment, everything was upside down.
BLACK.
Radio:
"Red flag, red flag! Multiple cars in the wall at Nouvelle!"
"Can we get a status on Leclerc?"
Pause.
"...We’ve lost telemetry."
Notes:
Thank you for reading this chapter— a lot of planning was put into this one. Writing from Charles’ POV in Monaco felt like peeling back layers he’s spent years hiding behind.
Next chapter, we shift gears (pun intended) into the aftermath, and the cracks in the paddock really start to widen.
Let me know your thoughts—especially on the Max/Charles tension and if you're screaming yet because... same.
Chapter 4: What we Break
Summary:
Oscar’s phone slips from his hands.
He stares at the screen, cold settling in his chest.
Someone has access to everything.
Notes:
Extra long update today as an apology for the delay I really wanted to have this chapter out before the race but alas life happens. This is mostly just Oscar, Max and Charles suffering which seems awfully poetic after whatever the fuck that race was I'd like it to personally be wiped from the record. But NICO podium!!!! tears of joy were shed.
With how long the chapter is I've tried a new editing style to improve the flow of text, let me know what yall think.
Happy reading :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pov: Oscar Piastri
Post Monaco Grand Prix Crash
Oscar woke to quiet.
Not the kind of quiet he knew from trackwalks at sunrise or the stillness before lights out. This was medical silence—the sterile hush of machines beeping at carefully spaced intervals, the low murmur of filtered air. Somewhere, just outside his range of vision, a monitor blinked like it was trying to remember something for him.
His mouth was dry. There was the sterile tang of antiseptic in the back of his throat. He blinked slowly, once, twice. Light stabbed through his skull. The sounds of sirens fade in. He blinks slowly. Disoritentated—only one thought runs through his head.
Where am I?
Then it came back all at once: the tunnel exit. The overtake. The space that wasn’t really there. Max. Charles. The slam. He has no memory of the impact—only the scream of metal and sensation of spinning.
Pain bloomed behind his left temple like someone had drilled lightning into his skull.
A nurse appeared beside him—blue scrubs, tired eyes, a clipboard. “Mr. Piastri? You’re awake.”
His voice cracked like carbon fiber. “Wh—what happened?”
“You were involved in a multi-car incident during the Monaco Grand Prix. You lost consciousness after the impact but regained it in the ambulance. You’ve been stable. You’re lucky.”
Oscar tried to sit up. Regretting it immediately.
“Easy. You’ll have some vertigo.”
He tasted bile. Then forced out the only words that mattered.
“Is Charles okay?”
The nurse paused.
Something small and terrible settled in Oscar’s chest—the silence was earth shattering. It made him realise two key things.
1.The medical staff are avoiding the topic.
- Something went very, very wrong.
Guilt was slowly oozing out of his heart—the crash was Oscar's fault. Did he even deserve to be informed of what happened to Charles when he was at fault? Would Charles ever forgive him for driving so carelessly at his home race of all places? Everyone knew that Monaco was Charles' kingdom and he just came in like a wrecking ball.
Oscar briefly wondered if he’d need to hire a security detail, he didn’t think he would ever be comfortable showing his face in Monaco again. Maybe he could try Switzerland? Last he heard from Mark, Seb was out there enjoying retirement with his bees saving the planet and what not. Oscar might just have to retire early and join him, if Nico could retire after only one championship—he could do the same.
God when had his life become such a dumpster —a major crash was the last thing he needed right now. He was the reigning world champion for crying out loud—he should be on his rise to the hall of fame. Instead his reputation was on the decline and he just went and doused his name in gasoline. He was officially a dumpster fire.
“He was taken into surgery,” she said gently. “They’re monitoring him closely.”
Oscar turned his head toward the window, but the curtains were drawn. All he could see was the reflection of himself in the glass: pale, eyes ringed in grey, and something else—something hollow, like a crater after impact.
He let his head fall back against the pillow. The pain was easier than not knowing.
Now, lying still in the hospital bed, Oscar let the pain ebb just long enough for his mind to rewind.
It came back like a strobe light.
Max and Charles. Side by side. Locked together. The Red Bull twitching left, then right—waiting. Charles faking to the left but holding steady, but tense, brake lights blinking a fraction too late. The tunnel exit opened ahead of them like a trap.
Oscar saw the space.
It wasn’t big enough. Not really. But the instinct came before the logic. That old voice inside every racing driver’s head:
If there’s a gap…
He dove.
The car responded to muscle memory. Clean angle. Brakes feathered. Nose just inside Charles’s gearbox.
And then—
Charles turned in.
It wasn’t late. It wasn’t dirty. It was Monaco.
There wasn’t time for anything else.
Three cars. One corner. No space.
Their tires kissed. The Ferrari jolted sideways.
He heard Max swear through the comms—bleeding through static.
Then came the sound. Not of impact, but shattering . Like carbon fiber and glass and the breath being knocked out of a body.
He saw Charles’s rear wing crumple.
He felt his own front wing snap.
Then the world turned sideways.
White.
Then black.
Oscar jerked back to the present, gasping.
The nurse was beside him in an instant. “Mr. Piastri—?”
“I’m fine,” he whispered. He wasn’t.
Charles had turned in.
He had gone for the gap.
Oscar clenches the sheets in his fists. I caused it.
They’d both done what they were taught to do.
And it still broke everything.
Oscar must’ve been knocked out like a light because the first thing he could hear when he came to was the sound of Lando chatting to one of the nurses outside the door. He knew it was Lando for sure because he’d recognise that voice anywhere in a crowd.
Oscar strained his ears to get a clearer picture, but it was of no use. It seemed as if Lando had decided to use his indoor voice, Oscar was only a little disappointed he couldn't hear anything. Sue him for being a little bit nosey. Lando was going to be the first driver he was going to see after the crash and he at least wanted to know if Lando hated him now—before having to see each other face to face.
Oscar grew tense waiting—the suspense was killing him, any moment now Lando was due to walk into the room and Oscar didn’t think he had the balls to face him. Charles and Lando were close friends and he’d gone and ruined Charles' race. If Lando didn’t have a reason to hate him before–-he now had a reason to be spiteful forever.
He was still unprepared but the moment had come—he’d finally heard a pair of feet stop in front of his door accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing. He watched like a hawk as the door slowly creeped open— deep breaths Oscar, deep breaths.
When the door finally swung open, there he was. Lando was standing in all his glory—oh boy was he a sight to take in, he looked like he’d just walked out of a magazine.
The silence that swallowed the room when Lando walked in was deafening—Oscar felt his chest tightening; he'd been caught and there was nowhere to run.
Being brave he looked up to break the ice and make eye contact with Lando—those beautiful green eyes were staring sharply into his soul. He could feel the waves of disappointment just rolling off Lando’s body.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, he tried again but no luck. For the first time in his life Oscar Piastri had been rendered speechless.
Oscar could tell the moment Lando became uncomfortable shifting side to side under his piercing gaze—it didn’t seem like he wanted to be here either, Oscar thought. He could also tell Lando had something to say but was holding back—he always fidgeted when he was nervous. Oscar just wished he’d spit his words out and put them both out of misery.
“ I’m not really in the mood for visitors right now so if you could just make this quick I’d be grateful”.
Lando shifted again, his mouth slowly dropping open voice tight as he spoke. “You scared the hell out of us mate, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking there was a gap and like every trained driver I went for it. You of all people should know about going for a gap that closes at the last second. Canada 2025 ring any bells.”
“Don’t start deflecting, this isn’t about me, you're the one who is in the hospital hooked up to all these machines.” Lando takes a deep breath and sighs before continuing. “Look Oscar I’ve seen the replays and your onboards and if we are being real never in a million years was that move going to be successful.”
Oscar rubbed his head in annoyance refusing to look Lando in the eye—but he was right Oscar was an idiot for thinking he could get away with that in Monaco of all places. “Don’t start lecturing me now Lando, you aren’t Zak and you sure as hell aren’t Andrea. I get it everyone probably hates me—and can’t wait to curse me out but quite frankly I don’t give a shit about what people think.”
“You know you can drop the ice man persona around me Oscar—you aren’t fooling anyone. I know you care about what everyone thinks of you. You wouldn’t be in such a high profile sport where people quite literally worship the ground you walk on if you didn’t crave fame or attention. Wake up Oscar.”
If Oscar rolled his eyes any further they might just pop out of his head. “And the lecture continues, if you were able to use your eyes which by the looks of things you seem to be unable to Lando. I am in fact awake because if I wasn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. I’m here to do my job—not to be liked; those are two separate things.”
Lando uncrossed his arms. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, I could feed you to the vultures at any minute. Do you know how many photographers are swarming the outside of the hospital right now? How many Charles fans are ready to burn you at the stake demanding you pay for ruining his home race? You don’t, so be grateful I got to you first because lord knows everyone and their mother have got some choice words for you.”
Realistically Oscar knew Charles' name was bound to come up in conversation, and when it did it hurt—badly. It felt like his whole body had collapsed in on itself, his heart skipping a beat as he tried to sit up to face Lando again. He stutters over his words “Is Charles—” he wanted so badly to know how Charles was doing.
“Still in surgery. It’s looking like severe chest trauma—internal bleeding. They still aren’t saying much, everyone is still being tight lipped so far.” Lando offers in consolation.
Oscar's body stills, ice running through his veins he feels cold. His thoughts are running a mile a minute. Lando doesn't seem to notice or care because he continues.
“Max has a fractured wrist but nothing is majorly wrong with him besides that, doctors said he should only have to sit out a race but if he feels up to it they may consider clearing him to race next weekend. Carlos is fine as well, just a few small cuts and bruises. He barely required any medical attention and was let go pretty quickly. Everyone's been discharged except you two.”
“You mean….. Charles and I? Does that mean nobody else was injured?” Oscar asks timidly, still not trusting his voice.
“Yeah luckily nobody else was involved in the accident but the damage was serious enough that the stewards red flagged the race. But after further inspection of the track they just decided to suspend the rest of the race so only half points will be awarded.”
The silence that follows is heavy but not unfamiliar, Lando chooses his next words very carefully. “The media’s tearing into all three of you. But mostly you, I’d avoid staying off social media for a while—twitter is busy having their third meltdown of the week. I’d also advise getting some security guards or something. Those Charles fans can be blood thirsty.”
Oscar collapses to the bed in resignation. “Of course they are—I don’t expect anything less. I mean I took out the hometown hero. I deserve any of the threats or names they are calling me.”
“They are saying you went for glory. That you didn’t think.”
“Maybe I didn’t.”
Lando pauses to take a breath before starting back up. “Enough about the others, how are you feeling? Everyone back at the motorhome is eagerly waiting for an update on your condition, you know how protective Zak can get.”
“Noboys actually told me whats wrong, but based of the way the nurses and doctors have been treating me like I’m made out of glass. I’ve for sure had to have done some damage, everything should be outlined on my chart at the end of the bed. I haven’t seen it yet so if you wouldn’t mind being helpful could you have a look for me?”
Oscar takes note of Lando’s rigid posture as he bends down to check the chart, as soon as his eyes reach their target his body seizes up and becomes pale. Oscar’s heart’s never dropped this fast before whatever hole he’s managed to dig might just be a death sentence. But Oscar gives Lando the benefit of the doubt; he knows that Lando can be overdramatic at times, however the deep feeling of dread holding his body hostage tells him his gut is right. So he questions. “Lando? Is everything all right? It shouldn't be taking this long to read my chart.”
Oscar waits for an answer for what feels like forever, but there in front of him Lando is still standing unmoving like a statue. He can only hear as Lando’s breath becomes more and more ragged with the passing minutes.
Lando’s feet are moving before he even has the opportunity to speak, Oscar’s left with no option to call out for him. “Lando, wait, come back here, where are you going? Is something wrong? Please Lando tell me—don’t just walk away and turn your back on me.”
Lando calls out over his shoulder as he leaves the room, tone flat void of any emotion. “I’m getting the doctor.”
Lando had been with him since he woke—fidgeting, pacing, —but now he was gone, having excused himself ten minutes ago to “hunt down a doctor.” Oscar half-suspected he just needed to escape the walls. Maybe Oscar did too.
If he could walk.
He shifted in bed, wincing as a sharp bolt shot through his left side. His hip felt like it was filled with splintered glass. Movement was limited—on doctor’s orders—and every breath dragged against the bruises lining his ribs like barbed wire. He inhaled shallowly, trying not to cough.
Then the door creaked open.
A woman entered—mid-40s, no-nonsense, clipboard in hand. Dark circles under her eyes and the expression of someone who'd given this kind of talk a hundred times before. She wore a white coat with the hospital insignia, and her ID read: Dr. Emilia Hartmann, Orthopedic Lead Consultant.
Behind her, Lando slipped in, quietly closing the door.
"Mr. Piastri," she said, nodding in greeting. “I’m Dr. Hartmann. I've reviewed your scans, telemetry data, and post-crash assessments. I understand you've been… waiting.”
“That’s one word for it,” Oscar muttered, trying to sit straighter. His hip screamed. He froze. “Go ahead.”
She glanced down at the chart and then back up at him with practiced calm.
“Let’s start with the most pressing injury. You’ve sustained a microfracture in the acetabulum—that’s the socket of your left hip. The sudden torque from the crash forced your lower spine and hip into unnatural rotation. No full break, thankfully, but the bone is compromised.”
Oscar clenched his jaw. “What does that mean?”
“It means you won’t be walking unassisted for at least three weeks. Possibly longer depending on your progress. You’ll need targeted physiotherapy, mobility support, and rest.”
Lando winced beside him. Oscar didn’t look at him. “And racing?”
“Out of the question for now,” she said, her voice neutral. “We’ll re-evaluate in six weeks. Minimum.”
Oscar’s stomach dropped. Six weeks? He did the mental math: Montréal. Austria. Zanvoort. Gone. Just like that.
Dr. Hartmann continued, “You’ve also suffered deep tissue trauma and contusions across the pelvis and lower back . The muscle damage will heal, but pain will remain significant—especially during transitions from lying to sitting or standing. You’ll need help.”
Oscar’s face flushed. “Help,” he repeated. The word tasted bitter.
“There’s more,” she said, softer now. “You have s evere bruising along the right ribcage . No fractures, but enough damage to affect your breathing and sleep. We've put you on anti-inflammatories and light sedation at night to manage the pain.”
Oscar nodded slowly, numb. “Anything else?” His voice was low, tight.
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
She handed him a tablet. Onscreen was a biometric chart. Heart rate. Cortisol spikes. Blood oxygen levels. A digital heartbeat flattened into terrifying spikes.
“This is from your FIA medical telemetry,” she said. “It’s flagged for review. Your stress hormone and adrenaline patterns during the crash and the minutes after were inconsistent with typical G-force trauma responses.”
Oscar blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means your body responded to the crash like it was being threatened psychologically— not just physically. You had a full cortisol surge nearly a minute before impact. Your heart rate peaked before the telemetry recorded the collision.”
Oscar looked at her, stunned. “You’re saying I panicked before the crash?”
“I’m saying your body thought something was wrong long before your car hit the wall. And the FIA Medical Commission noticed. They’re requesting a psychological clearance before you’re medically reinstated.”
The silence in the room thickened.
Lando spoke first. “That’s—insane. You’re saying he was already in fight-or-flight before the crash? He didn’t even touch the wall yet.”
Dr. Hartmann nodded gravely. “We’ve seen this in cases of extreme mental fatigue, stress overload, or external stimuli—noise, visual triggers, PTSD, that sort of thing.”
Oscar looked at his hands. “I don’t remember panicking. I remember the tunnel. Max and Charles. I saw the gap and then—then it’s just noise.”
“That gap,” Lando said, voice careful, “might’ve triggered more than you realized.”
Dr. Hartmann handed him another paper. It was a formal letter from the FIA Medical Delegate.
Subject: Mandatory Psychological Evaluation for Clearance
Driver: Oscar Piastri
Reason: Telemetry Discrepancy & Cortisol Irregularity Post-Monaco GP Incident
Oscar read it twice. Then again. His name, stamped like a warning.
“So I’m a danger now,” he said quietly.
“No,” Dr. Hartmann said gently. “You’re injured. And overexposed. And very human.”
He wanted to laugh. Or break something. But all he could do was sit there, stitched together by hospital linen and unresolved adrenaline.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll start pain management and mobility training.”
Oscar nodded.
She turned to leave. Lando moved to follow, but paused.
“You okay?”
Oscar shook his head. “What do you think?”
Lando gave a dry laugh. “Right. Stupid question.”
He closed the door gently behind him.
Oscar was alone again.
He stared at the ceiling for a while. Let the pain throb across his chest and down his leg like a metronome. He counted the seconds between beeps of the heart monitor.
Oscar reached for his phone, the least he could do after causing such an accident was to watch the post race FIA press conference. The official conference had been closed off from the public but after some internet sleuthing he was able to find a recording albeit a bit dodgy, Oscar couldn’t be in the dark any longer.
As the blurry video roars to life Oscar can’t help but notice the press area was busier than normal which was definitely his fault. Cameras were eagerly pointed at the unsuspecting victims of Lewis, George and Alex on the couch. Lewis as usual looked bored out of his mind, he was way too cool for anyone in the room. Meanwhile Alex and George were busy chatting like there was no tomorrow.
As expected Lewis is asked the first question. ‘Lewis what a thrilling race today it’s your 110th grand prix win, excited to add another win in Monaco to your collection?’
‘Yes winning is definitely a feeling that never fades especially in such a high stakes sport but it’s always a shame to win under such circumstances. The real winner today in my eyes is Charles and no before you ask I don’t have any updates on how Charles is doing right now but everyone at Mercedes is wishing him a speedy recovery.’
‘Another question from sky sports Lewis this is your fourth win around these streets you're practically a master around the circuit. What do you make of Oscar Piastris move on lap 32, overly ambitious move on the home town hero? A rather greedy move by the current world champion don’t you think.’
‘Sure I can agree the move by Piastri might’ve been a bit greedy but that's part of being a world champion. We are selfish creatures after all it’s in our nature to go for a gap—you can’t just deny the instinct. Leclerc did give him the space to make a pass and Oscar made a misjudgement that's all there is to it. With all that being said it’s best not to speculate, the FIA will handle the investigation and I trust the stewards will do their jobs.’
Oscar can hardly watch at least someone on the grid understood why he went for the gap, he was just glad it was Lewis of all people. A world champion—someone whose opinion held a lot of weight in the confines of the paddock.
‘Thank you for that response Lewis lets move on to our second place finisher George Russel. George, what do you make of today's race? Certainly a lot of on track action today.’
‘Umm yeah continuing on from what Lewis said it’s been a great weekend for Mercedes it's our 65th 1-2 grand prix finish so definitely lots to celebrate with the team. It’s one thousand percent a huge achievement for everyone at the factory considering we were very off pace compared to the Mclarens and Ferraris. So a massive shout out to everyone in the team for working hard to turn things around for today. But it’s definitely not a nice feeling to be profiting off another driver's misfortune.’
‘George the FIA have just released the first official statement regarding the incident between Verstappen, Leclerc and Piastri. They are blaming a miscommunication between the drivers and their engineers, opting out of placing the blame on a singular diver. Do you think that's fair?’
‘I’m going to stop you right there, can't you guys hear yourselves? There are currently two drivers who happen to also be my friends stuck in the hospital and the only thing you're trying to do right now is create a headline. What happened to integrity? Let me make it clear right now I will not be making any comments about the accident that’s not my place. So let us respect the decisions of the FIA and move on. There are plenty more pressing questions to be asked.’
Oscar watches in sweet satisfaction as the journalist turns red in the face, stumbling over their words before giving up. Oscar decides he’s seen all he needs to, there were at least two people on the grid that didn’t currently hate his guts. Plus currently according to the stewards no one was at fault for the incident and it was being referred to as a racing incident. Maybe just maybe he’d be able to escape the weekend with his public image intact because if not he feared to the moment his PR coordinator Sophie found him. She was a ruthless woman who took no prisoners, Oscar really didn’t want to sit through a refresher course.
He switched to twitter for a break and for the first time in his life Lando was right—he really should’ve stayed off social media. Without warning his eyes were assaulted with various images and headlines, Oscar felt his vision sway as the bile swiftly rose up his throat— he was gonna be sick. A particular headline catches his eye sending a heavy punch to the gut.
“ Leclerc Hospitalised After Reckless Divebomb By Mclaren’s Oscar Piastri”
‘ It wasn’t bravery. It was ego.’
The headline was accompanied with images of Chalres’s lifeless body being lifted into the ambulance—they were everywhere. Commentators were labelling it the ‘Monaco Massacre’ and by the looks of things they weren’t too far off.
Oscar couldn’t take it anymore and switched to instagram hoping it would be better, and oh boy oh boy was he wrong. His mentions and dms were seconds away from exploding but it’s what catches his attention second that's important. Someone had managed to clip Max’s onboard as he shouts “ What the hell was Piastri doing?”
Charles’s onboard ends mid-scream.
A slow-motion clip of the impact—Oscar’s nose touching Charles’s floor—goes viral with over eight million views in under an hour. The caption changes every time he refreshes. “Piastri’s Mistake.” “Leclerc Deserved Better.” “Three into One: Who’s to Blame?”
The sound is off, but Oscar doesn’t need it. He can see it all.
The frame-by-frame analysis.
The red car was folding sideways.
The blue and orange blur locking its fate to the asphalt
.
Max’s rear end barely clearing the shrapnel.
Oscar stares at the phone blankly.
Scrolls.
Scrolls.
Someone has slowed it down to 0.25x speed, added dramatic music, and cut to Charles’s face from grid interviews earlier that morning.
He scrolls.
A journalist reposts Oscar’s 2021 F2 divebomb in Silverstone. “He’s done it before. The difference is, no one ended up in hospital.”
He scrolls.
A fan page posts a split screen: on one side, the moment of impact. On the other, a picture of Charles unconscious on a stretcher, oxygen mask pressed to his face, neck brace stiff against blood-stained fireproofs.
He scrolls.
There’s a Twitter poll:
Should Oscar Piastri receive a grid penalty for Canada?
✔ Yes – 67%
✘ No – 33%
He scrolls.
Someone dug up a photo of him and Charles from the Netflix gala two months ago, both laughing under soft lights. The caption?
“Funny how quick friends become headlines.”
He stops scrolling.
The screen blurs. Not from the screen—his own vision swimming. His hands are steady, but everything inside him feels fractured. Not just from the crash. But from something deeper. Like a bone had cracked beneath the surface of everything he believed about control.
Lando’s voice breaks the silence: “Oscar. Stop.”
Oscar flinches.
He hadn’t realized Lando had returned to the room and was standing behind him. Not until now.
“You think if you watch it enough, it’ll change?” Lando’s voice is quiet. Not unkind.
Oscar doesn’t answer. His thumb hovers over the screen.
Lando walks over, takes the phone, and powers it off.
“You’re not gonna survive this if you try to live through their version of it,” Lando says. “So stop.”
Oscar nods.
He doesn’t say:
But what if their version is right?
What if I did ruin everything with a single move?
What if I don’t deserve to be forgiven?
Because deep down, he already thinks he knows the answer.
And he’s scared the world does too.
A heart monitor beeped steadily beside him, the only reliable rhythm in the room. He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Not since the last nurse checked his vitals and disappeared again into the corridor’s hush.
The blinds were drawn tight against the night sky, sealing out the glittering Monaco skyline. Not that he wanted to see it. What comfort could the harbor or the palace offer now? His body ached with every breath, a dull reminder that he was here—that he had walked away from the wreck.
Charles hadn’t.
Oscar’s hands trembled in his lap. He watched them without surprise. The crash played behind his eyes like a broken film reel. Not in motion. Just a gallery of frozen images:
Max’s Red Bull lunging into the chicane.
Charles veering ever so slightly.
Oscar’s car squeezed between them, the gap already too small before he committed.
And then—
The scream of carbon.
The sickening snap.
The world flipped.
He hadn’t heard anything. Not then. Just the silence between seconds, the way his heart stopped for a fraction of a breath as Charles’s Ferrari crumpled and vanished from view.
I knew better. I knew better, and I still did it.
The knock on the door barely registered. Only when it opened did he glance up.
George Russell stepped inside, looking equal parts exhausted and determined. He was still in his black Mercedes kit, hair wind-swept, sleeves pushed up like he hadn’t been home since the race. In each hand, he carried a paper cup.
“Didn’t know if you took sugar,” George said, voice calm. He set the cup on the small table beside Oscar’s bed, then dropped into the visitor’s chair without waiting for an invitation.
Oscar stared at the cup for a moment. “I don’t.”
George gave a faint smile. “Figures.”
They didn’t speak for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was padded with the weight of everything unsaid. Oscar took the cup eventually, mostly for something to hold. It was warm, comforting in a way he didn’t want to admit.
“They’ve already started cutting together documentaries,” George said suddenly, leaning back in the chair. “Monaco 2025: ‘The Fall of Three Kings.’”
Oscar snorted. “Catchy.”
“Sickening. But catchy.”
Another silence settled between them.
George leaned forward again, elbows on knees. “Everyone saw the replay. They know it wasn’t malicious.”
Oscar didn’t look at him. “Doesn’t change the fact that Charles is still in intensive care.”
“No,” George said. “It doesn’t.”
Oscar let the weight of that hang in the room. The air felt heavier here. Like it remembered what he’d done.
“Max hasn’t said a word to anyone,” George added after a beat.
Oscar glanced over. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. It’s supposed to tell you how messed up this whole thing is.”
Oscar sighed and looked back at the blank television screen mounted to the wall. He hadn’t turned it on. Couldn’t bring himself to watch his name run across the lower thirds while pundits dissected every millisecond of the crash like gods with slow-motion powers.
A second knock interrupted them.
This time, the door opened to reveal a woman Oscar didn’t recognize. She was tall, neatly put together in a charcoal grey blouse and navy trousers. Her ID badge was clipped to her waistband. No logo. Just her name: Dr. Eva Renner.
“Mr. Piastri,” she said evenly, stepping inside. “I’m Dr. Renner. The FIA has asked me to conduct post-incident mental health assessments for all drivers involved in Sunday’s incident.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You’re a therapist.”
“Clinical psychologist,” she corrected, then glanced at George. “You’re welcome to stay, if Mr. Piastri prefers.”
Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “Stay.”
Eva moved efficiently, pulling up a chair across from the bed and opening a tablet. She didn’t carry a clipboard or a pen. Everything was digital now. Easy to track. Easy to leak.
“This isn’t a performance review,” she said, voice firm but not unkind. “It’s a wellness check. Our job is to ensure you’re emotionally fit to return to the paddock when cleared medically, and that you aren’t at risk.”
Oscar tilted his head. “At risk of what?”
“Self-harm. Re-traumatization. Or professional retaliation.”
He snorted softly. “So you can sign off on me and file me under ‘not dangerous.’”
Eva met his eyes. “So you don’t get left alone in this.”
That shut him up.
The questions started simply enough. Memory recall. Sleep quality. Appetite. Nightmares. He answered in short, clipped phrases. Yes. No. Maybe. George didn’t interrupt.
Then Eva shifted slightly in her seat.
“Do you feel personally targeted by recent events?” she asked. “Either through media framing, or violations of your privacy?”
Oscar didn’t answer right away. George’s expression changed—sharpened.
Oscar spoke slowly. “After the leak, and now this… I don’t know where the track ends and the cameras start anymore.”
Eva nodded. “That’s a fair line to draw.”
She paused, then set the tablet down in her lap.
“But I’ll be blunt, Oscar. Those boundaries may have already been crossed further than anyone realized.”
Oscar frowned. “What do you mean?”
Eva chose her words carefully. “There have been quiet reports—anomalies in team firewalls, driver data being accessed remotely. Medical and psychological files. Including ones stored through encrypted third-party systems. The FIA is coordinating a forensic audit.”
Oscar stared at her. “My psych files? From before the leak?”
“Yes.”
George cleared his throat. “Ferrari’s locked their entire server system. Red Bull too. Everyone’s spooked.”
“So,” Oscar said slowly, “the leak wasn’t the end.”
Eva met his gaze. “We’re not ruling anything out.”
For a moment, the room felt colder.
Eva stood once the assessment concluded, tucking the tablet under one arm.
“We’ll send the results through your team. In the meantime, try to rest. You’re not in this alone, Oscar.”
Oscar didn’t answer. He watched her walk out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached again for the cooling tea.
George noticed.
“She’s right, you know,” he said quietly. “You’re not alone.”
Oscar gave a tired smile. “Feels like I am.”
George leaned back, folding his arms. “You’re not. Trust me, when I rear-ended Bottas in Imola a few years back, the media made it sound like I was drunk and blindfolded. They don’t care about nuance. But I do.”
Oscar looked at him. Really looked.
There was something grounding about George Russell—this strange, almost old-fashioned steadiness, like a compass that didn’t lie even when the storm twisted the sky.
“You’re not broken, Oscar,” George said. “You're exhausted. And you’re being hunted in ways you can’t see yet.”
Oscar felt the words settle under his skin. Not comforting, but real.
He didn’t want lies. He wanted someone to admit how terrifying it was to be twenty-four and feel like the world had turned you into a headline before you even had the chance to become something else.
“Is Charles going to be okay?” he asked quietly.
George didn’t look away. “I don’t know.”
Eventually, George rose from the chair. The tea had long gone cold.
“Try to sleep,” he said, offering a hand. “The grid will be noisier tomorrow.”
Oscar clasped it. The handshake wasn’t firm, but it wasn’t fragile either. Just human.
“Thanks,” Oscar said. “For staying.”
George offered a half-smile. “We all crash eventually. It’s who shows up after that who matters.”
He left without another word.
The silence that followed was no longer peaceful. It was crawling.
The hospital didn’t smell like bleach or blood or antiseptic the way it did in the movies. It smelled like nothing. And that, somehow, felt worse.
Oscar waited at the end of the hallway in his wheelchair, his fingertips twitching at his sides. He’d lost track of how long he’d been waiting. Nurses came and went. A security guard hovered near the ICU entrance, more for show than purpose.
His name had finally been added to the approved visitor list fifteen minutes ago. And yet, he hadn’t moved.
He didn’t know what he expected—to be stopped? Told he didn’t belong here? That Charles had refused to see him?
But the door was open. And no one had said no.
So, he went in.
The first thing he noticed was the machines. The steady, persistent beeping of monitors syncing with Charles Leclerc’s heartbeat. The second thing was how still he was—too still. Pale against the white sheets, tubes snaking from under the blanket to the IV stand. A thin nasal oxygen line clung beneath his bruised cheekbone, taped down in a way that looked too delicate for someone like him.
Oscar wheeled just inside the room, frozen.
Charles opened his eyes slowly.
There was a beat. Maybe two. Then a dry, rasping voice:
“Are you alive?”
Oscar hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it all came rushing out at once, in a single exhale laced with tension and something dangerously close to relief. “Yeah,” he said, voice softer than he’d meant it to be. “You?”
Charles shifted slightly and grimaced. “Mostly.”
Oscar hesitated. Then wheeled loser. His shoes were soundless against the polished floor. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he tucked them into the sleeves of the hoodie Lando had thrown at him earlier that morning. It still smelled like jet fuel and fabric softener.
He reached the side of the bed and stopped, unsure if he was allowed to be here at all.
Charles didn’t send him away.
The silence between them wasn’t charged or heavy—it just was . Honest in the way only two people who’d nearly destroyed each other could be.
He tried to speak. Failed. Tried again.
“I shouldn’t have gone for it,” he said finally. “I didn’t think.”
Charles turned his head, the motion slow and pained but intentional. His eyes met Oscar’s, glassy but sharp. “You saw a gap,” he said. “That’s what we’re taught to do.”
Oscar laughed under his breath, but it didn’t sound like humor. “Not when it ends like this.”
Charles blinked slowly. The oxygen tube hissed faintly.
“You’re not the first person to misjudge me,” he said. “Or Monaco.”
Oscar looked away. The corner of the room seemed suddenly fascinating. He counted tiles on the floor until the sting in his eyes stopped building.
“I saw some of your clipped onboards,” he admitted, voice raw. “It looks worse the second time. And the third. And the tenth.”
Charles didn’t answer.
Oscar swallowed. “They’re saying I was desperate. That I wanted to prove something.”
That finally got a response. Charles gave a slow, shallow sigh. “And were you?”
Oscar turned his eyes back to him. “I don’t know.”
“That’s worse than yes,” Charles murmured.
Oscar said nothing. The silence grew again, not tense but tired. Shared.
He glanced at the machines—Charles’s oxygen levels, heart rate. Steady. But lower than they should’ve been.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Oscar whispered.
“I know,” Charles said, just as softly. Then, after a pause: “Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”
Oscar flinched. Not outwardly, but inside—where it counted. He nodded, accepting it. There was no rebuttal. No excuse.
Charles’s eyes were fluttering closed again, exhaustion creeping back into his bones. His body wasn’t built for recovery—it was built for control. For speed. Stillness didn’t suit him.
He wasn’t asleep yet, but he wasn’t fully there either when he said:
“Do you know what it’s like to feel everything spinning and not be able to do a thing?”
Oscar’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
That was the last thing Charles said. Not because he was angry. Just because he was done.
His breathing slowed. Steadied.
Oscar stayed. Didn’t reach for his phone. Didn’t look at the time. He just sat, watching the Monaco sunlight creep across the windowsill, feeling every second as it passed. It was the first moment since the crash that no one had asked anything of him. No press. No engineers. No teammates.
Just this: the broken remnants of something sacred. Trust. Pride. Silence.
He sat there for a long time.
And didn’t leave.
POV: Max Verstappen
The Red Bull Energy Station—normally a hive of swagger, sponsors, and post-race champagne—was a fortress. Shuttered blinds, locked doors, radios down. The media stood in clumps at the perimeter like hyenas denied a kill, lenses extended, voices strained with fabricated certainty. But no one knew where Max Verstappen was.
Not even his team.
Christian Horner stood at the edge of the hospitality deck with his hands clasped, sunglasses shielding his exhaustion. When pressed by reporters, his answer was smooth and vague: "We’re reviewing the incident internally. Max is undergoing standard FIA protocol and medical assessment. We’ll make a statement in due course."
He didn’t mention that Max had walked out of the paddock after the accident and hadn’t responded to a single message since.
Max had left the hospital after three hours.
A hairline fracture in his wrist. No concussion. A bruised rib. That was the official assessment.
Unofficially? He felt like something inside him had come apart.
He hadn’t spoken to anyone since they’d pulled him out of the Red Bull RB26. He hadn't looked at Christian. Hadn't even acknowledged the mechanic who'd reached for his helmet. When the marshals had arrived, he waved them off and climbed over the barrier on his own, disappearing down the alley behind Portier like a ghost.
He’d walked for hours.
No phones. No cameras. Just the streets of Monaco, too familiar to be comforting.
Monaco– Monday after Race Day
Now, in the early morning after, Max sat alone in the sim room above the main garage, surrounded by high-end tech that buzzed in standby mode. The door was locked. The lights were off.
The only illumination came from a muted screen showing replays of the crash on loop.
Max watched it again. Frame by frame.
Charles to the left.
Oscar to the right.
His own car in the middle, threading a line that was always going to vanish.
Then: chaos.
Charles’s rear clipped the wall first. Oscar’s nose into Charles’s floor. Max’s front wing shattered as he tried to pull back too late.
He paused it there. Three machines tangled, seconds before impact. It looked surgical. Like a dissection.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the screen.
It wasn’t about the win.
He could live without Monaco. He’d won it twice already.
But the moment before the crash—when Charles looked in the mirror, when their eyes locked for just a second—something had passed between them. Recognition. Or resignation.
And now Charles was in the ICU.
Max had seen the footage. Everyone had. The blood on Charles’s suit. The way the medics moved faster than usual. The angle his body had gone limp.
He hadn’t slept.
He hadn’t spoken.
Because he didn’t know what he would say.
In the garage below, the whispers were growing louder.
"He’s furious."
"He thinks Oscar cost him the win."
"He's not coming back next season. Did you see the way he walked out?"
Yuki had asked around. So had Pierre. No one got through. Lando hadn’t tried. Oscar wouldn’t dare.
Only George had knocked once on the sim room door.
"Max. It’s me. Just checking in."
No answer.
The knock had been polite. Like George always was. But there was tension in it. Concern. Or warning.
Max hadn’t moved.
He didn’t blame Oscar.
Not really.
The kid had seen a gap. He went for it. Max would’ve done the same. Had done the same, a hundred times over. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was Charles.
The problem was that he’d said nothing when the leak happened. When Charles’s therapy audio got dumped online like tabloid fodder. Max had sat in that meeting room, watched Charles keep his spine straight while the walls cracked around him, and said nothing.
Now Charles was in a hospital bed, and Max had helped put him there.
His silence was a thread. One that ran from the leak to the crash. From guilt to guilt.
The door buzzed.
Not a knock. A secure alert.
Max turned his head, eyes still adjusting to the lack of sleep. A Red Bull PR assistant—too young, too eager—stood at the glass.
He didn’t move.
She held up a tablet. The screen showed a message from Christian:
“We need your statement. Press deadline in 40 minutes.”
Max stared at it.
He reached over, pressed a button, and powered down the crash replay.
He finally stood.
When Max stepped back into the garage, the crew went silent. Tools paused. Conversations halted. Cameras snapped toward the sudden movement.
He didn’t look at anyone.
He made his way to the press trailer, walked past Horner without speaking, and sat down at the designated interview station.
A single camera. No media swarm. Just internal documentation.
Max adjusted the mic.
The team media officer asked gently, "Are you ready?"
He nodded once.
His voice, when it came, was low. Steady.
"First, I want to say I hope Charles makes a full recovery. What happened in that race was something no one ever wants to see. I’ve raced against Charles since we were kids. We’ve both taken risks. We’ve both pushed each other. And this time, it went wrong."
He paused. Not scripted. Not polished. Just quiet.
"I don’t blame Oscar. He took an opportunity. I would’ve done the same. I did the same."
Another pause.
"The only person I’m angry at right now is myself."
That was all he said.
He stood. Walked out.
Left the garage again.
POV- Oscar Piastri
The fluorescent lights of Oscar's hospital room cast a sterile glow on everything: the pale sheets, the neutral walls, the unread cup of tea on the bedside table. He'd been awake since dawn, but it didn’t feel like morning. It felt like an extension of the crash—one continuous stretch of stillness, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside him.
A knock interrupted the silence. Before Oscar could answer, the door creaked open and Lando stepped in, followed by Zak Brown. Lando was already mid-sentence, his tone clipped with restrained fury.
"They're twisting the narrative. Of course they are. Two Red Bulls and a Ferrari crash out and suddenly it's the guy in orange who's the villain."
Zak closed the door behind them and held up a hand. "Let's sit."
Oscar shifted uncomfortably as Lando pulled a chair close to the bed. Zak remained standing, arms crossed over his chest.
"This isn’t a public relations band-aid," Zak began. "This is a damage control war room. The FIA has notified us of their intention to open a formal investigation into the crash."
Oscar didn’t blink. He'd known it was coming.
"Other teams are pushing for penalties. Ferrari is pissed, obviously. So is Red Bull."
Lando let out a sharp laugh. "Red Bull? After what Max pulled?"
Zak shook his head. "Doesn’t matter. They have power, and they know how to use it. They’re framing this as reckless behavior by a younger driver."
Oscar spoke for the first time. His voice was low, even. "Are we fighting back?"
Zak exhaled slowly. "We’re not throwing you under the bus. But we also can’t take a public side. Not yet."
Lando’s jaw tightened. "You mean you're going neutral."
"I mean we tread carefully," Zak said, choosing his words like stepping over broken glass. "We’ve launched our own internal analysis. We’ll cooperate with the FIA, but no media statements, no direct blame." He turned to Oscar. "You don’t speak to anyone until we clear it. That includes social media."
Oscar nodded once. "Understood."
Zak walked to the window and looked out, then turned back. "Here’s the thing. This isn’t just about the crash anymore. Our cybersecurity team found evidence that our internal drives were accessed the night before Monaco."
Oscar blinked. "The leak?"
Zak nodded. "We don’t think it was just the video of you and Lando. There were files copied—engineering data, telemetry, even archived driver performance reports."
Lando sat forward. "You think this is all connected?"
"We're starting to. The timing's too perfect. Someone wants more than to ruin a podium. They want to break something fundamental."
Oscar thought of the text message. The surveillance footage. His mouth went dry.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
Zak hesitated. "We defend what we can. And we prepare for more hits."
There was a long pause. Beeping from the monitor punctuated the silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Lando broke it. "He should come back to Woking with us when he’s discharged. No press. Just somewhere quiet."
Zak considered it. Then nodded. "We'll arrange transport. Security detail too."
He walked to the door but paused before opening it. "One more thing. Someone in this paddock is feeding the chaos. I don’t know who. Yet. But it’s not just journalists."
Lando narrowed his eyes. "You think it's a team?"
Zak didn’t answer. He just looked at Oscar.
"Get some rest. We'll need you to be clear-headed."
After he left, Lando stayed, arms crossed, watching Oscar. "We're not letting them bury you. You hear me?"
Oscar nodded faintly. But something inside him said this went deeper than bad press.
It was no longer just about blame.
It was about control.
And someone, somewhere, had just declared war.
Monaco– 2 Days Post Race
It was close to 2 a.m., and Monaco had finally gone quiet.
The city usually never slept during race weekend. Not really. The yachts in the harbor would keep blaring music until sunrise. The streets would vibrate with voices, engines, cameras. But tonight, under the sterile hush of hospital fluorescents and through the soundproofed windows of the private recovery wing, the silence was complete.
Oscar Piastri was alone.
His room, dimly lit, was cold in a way that wasn’t temperature-related. He sat in the armchair near the corner—still dressed in the soft hospital shirt they'd given him, IV out but the plastic tubing still clinging faintly to his skin like guilt.
He hadn’t moved much since Zak, Lando and Andrea had left hours earlier. Hadn’t touched his food. Hadn’t answered Lando’s texts. He hadn’t looked at social media in days, and honestly, he didn’t know if he ever would again.
But the laptop Zak had dropped off was still sitting on the bedside table.
And he couldn’t not look.
So now, the only light in the room came from the screen on his lap, casting a faint blue glow across his face as he sat hunched over it, scrolling silently.
The Monaco Grand Prix: Full Race Replay.
He clicked play.
The pre-race footage rolled first—tight camera pans of the grid, the skyline, celebrities doing awkward handshakes. Oscar barely registered any of it until the broadcast cut to the drivers walking to their cars.
Charles appeared first.
Oscar’s fingers paused on the spacebar, freezing the screen. Charles looked tired. He wore his helmet under one arm, jaw tight, nodding slightly to fans but not smiling. His gait was controlled, but… off. Stiff. Like he was bracing for something.
Oscar swallowed.
He pressed play
Max came next, striding through the paddock like a ghost in navy blue. No expression. Stone-eyed. Lando followed behind, arms crossed, shoulders coiled like springs. And there Oscar was, appearing briefly in the shot—talking to an engineer, nodding, eyes unreadable.
He didn’t look like someone who was about to ruin everything.
He skipped ahead. Past the grid walk interviews, past the dramatized pit wall commentary, and stopped at the formation lap.
Charles’s onboard.
The shot flicked to his rearview mirror, and for a single second, Oscar saw it—Charles’s eyes reflecting back at the camera, flickering in the mirror. Focused. Calm. But there was something else too. Something faint, something…
Almost like he knew.
Oscar froze the frame again. Zoomed in slightly.
It was probably nothing. Probably projection.
But still, something gnawed at him.
He hit play.
The opening laps unfurled like a dance he now knew the ending to. Carlos surged into the lead. Max hunted him down. George got swallowed by both of them. Oscar remembered defending hard against Hamilton—watching in real time as the strategy slowly pulled everyone into the jaws of the chicane.
He let the video run until lap 18. Then he sat forward.
Charles took the lead for a moment. Lap 20—Max passed in the pit cycle. Then Charles came in, rejoined P3.
Lap 25.
Oscar’s heart rate sped up.
He switched to the multi-cam option. Set Charles and Max on the upper split. Himself on the lower.
Lap 27. The tension was obvious even in the replays. The commentators were already speculating on Max’s aggression. “Verstappen doesn’t want to wait for another DRS zone. He wants it now.”
Oscar scrubbed the bar manually.
Lap 32.
He found it.
And hit pause.
Three cars. One chicane.
He played the moment frame by frame.
Charles went for the outside on Max. Their wheels nearly touched.
Oscar saw the gap open.
He saw his own car dive into the inside line. His onboard showed nothing but opportunity. Nothing but instinct.
Then came Charles’s turn-in.
Then contact.
Max’s car shifted slightly.
And Charles—
—Charles’s car snapped sideways.
The sound of impact was a sudden, violent thing, even in replay. Metal screamed. Rubber exploded. Debris ricocheted like shrapnel. The camera shook slightly as Charles’s car spun into the barrier, rear wing shattering like glass, Max skipping over the curb and Oscar’s McLaren plowing straight through the wake of destruction.
Oscar watched it unfold.
Then reversed it.
Played it again.
And again.
His breath caught somewhere around his chest. He felt like he was being compressed from the inside out. Frame by frame, he watched his own front wing slot underneath Charles’s floor. Watched his hands twitch the wheel too late. Watched the consequences explode in slow motion.
How many milliseconds did it take to cause permanent damage?
He let the video roll past the crash this time. To the chaos. To the red flag.
The replays filled the screen, analyzed from every angle. Max’s onboard. Charles’s telemetry. Oscar’s lock-up. Everything dissected, narrated, criticized by pundits who would never sit in a car moving 250 km/h into a city corner with a ten-inch window of choice.
There was a clip of Charles being pulled from the wreckage. Limp. Unmoving.
Oscar clicked it off.
He sat still in the dark, the silence now deafening.
For a long time, he just breathed. Eyes open, seeing nothing. His chest hurt—not from bruising, but from pressure. From something raw and guilt-shaped.
Then—he cried.
It came slowly at first. A blink too long, a breath catching in his throat. Then a tremble. Then something deeper. His body curled inward as though trying to physically reject what he’d just seen, what he’d caused.
Oscar Piastri cried for the first time in years.
Not over the media. Not over what was being said. Not even over his career.
But for Charles.
And for the unbearable thought that maybe, just maybe… he’d broken something that wouldn’t come back.
The crying wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t loud. There were no sobs echoing through the hospital floor.
Just silent tears soaking the collar of his shirt. Shaking hands. His breath caught in his chest like a misfire.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that.
Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a full hour.
At some point, he pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders like a shield.
The laptop still sat open on the replay pause screen. Charles’s broken car, sideways in the chicane.
Oscar closed the lid.
Then he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, sat back, and stared at the ceiling.
And then—his phone buzzed.
He reached for it slowly, ignoring the fire in his ribs.
Unknown Number.
He opened the message.
“You’re not unstable. You’re just waking up.”
Attached: a screenshot.
His biometric file. The same one Dr. Hartmann had shown him. This time, highlighted.
Time stamp: T - 00:45 seconds before impact.
There was a red circle around one line:
ALERT: External spike detected — Biometric Trigger Feed Override
Oscar’s blood ran cold.
Another message followed.
“We know how to make your body lie. Imagine what we can do to your mind.”
Then silence.
Oscar’s phone slips from his hands.
He stares at the screen, cold settling in his chest.
Someone has access to everything.
The footage.
The drivers.
The hospitals.
And now… they're warning him.
Notes:
If you’ve ever held something in until it spilled over at 2 a.m., this chapter’s for you.
Things will only get messier from here. The fallout, the fear, the surveillance—it’s all closing in. But so is the support, the friendships, the unexpected strength in being seen, even when it’s the most terrifying thing.
No race for two weeks don't know how I'm going to survive I crave cars on track
Thank you for reading❤️
Lels24 on Chapter 1 Sun 15 Jun 2025 07:18AM UTC
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