Chapter Text
Despite the fact that Oscar really wanted to kill himself that night, he couldn’t. He had more important things to do. Namely, attending his five year old’s ballet recital.
So he put it out of his mind. He went to the children’s ballet theater. Brought along a bouquet bigger than Maxine herself, unable to stop himself from laughing a little when she nearly toppled over while trying to pose for pictures with him. Her older brother, Charlie, rolled his eyes and muttered under breath. Afterwards, Oscar pretended not to notice when he stood up and clapped louder than anyone after her solo.
When they were back home and everyone had been fed, showered and put to bed, he was left alone again. Alone with his thoughts.
His thoughts hadn’t always been an unwelcome place. But in recent months, there were few places worse to be.
He tried to distract himself as he cleaned up after dinner. It wasn’t uncommon for his depression to feel a touch intense on Sunday nights. He didn’t even blink at the suddenness of the thoughts anymore.
On Thursday, he mused, his seven year old had a soccer game. His son was a great goalie. Coming home to a dead father probably wouldn’t be a great way to celebrate if his team won.
Tuesday, Oscar had a dentist appointment. The reminder made him pause, one hand covered in soap suds as he rinsed a dish. He needed to double check the family calendar and make sure the kids were up to date with their bi-annual cleanings.
A pair of arms snaked around his waist, pulling his back flush against a warm chest and snapping him out of his thoughts.
When did Lando get home?
“Hi, baby.” His husband pressed a kiss to his temple. “Sorry I missed dinner. Post race interviews went long.”
Oscar hummed lightly. “It’s okay. How was the race?”
“Good.” The response was muffled, lips pressed to his shoulder. Lando was like this sometimes after a race weekend. Desperate to touch Oscar, like the lack of contact from the past few days had made him forget what he felt like. “Podiumed. Third, but better than nothing. How was the recital?”
“Good. She was a little nervous before she went on, but she did great. I recorded it for you.”
Lando grimaced. Sighed, the sound full of longing and regret. “She wasn’t too mad at me for missing it?”
Oscar’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Furious. But I bought them both icecream after and said it was from you. Congrats on the podium. We should celebrate later, yeah?”
He meant it. He didn’t resent Lando for working so hard at his career, just like he didn’t blame him for the way he’d been feeling these last few months. There was nothing his husband could do about the tornado brewing in his chest—silent and increasingly, terrifyingly deadly.
Lando Norris. Two time Formula 1 world champion, McLaren golden boy, driver of the ages. And in recent years, loving husband and father.
Sometimes, Oscar wondered what labels the world would assign to him. Oscar Piastri. Loving husband and father, sure.
But was there anything else?
You haven’t accomplished anything. What else would there be?
Reaching around him, Lando leant into the sink and placed a hand over Oscar’s. He didn’t seem to care that he was covered in soap. “Come on, let me do the dishes. You already cooked tonight.”
“No, no. You need to eat.” Oscar turned in his arms, pecking him softly on the lips. He tasted like champagne and sweat. “Your plate’s in the microwave.”
Lando’s eyes were warm as he looked at him. They’d been that way since they’d met and never once grown cold in their many years together.
“You’re the best,” he whispered. The words were pressed into Oscar’s mouth, sinking into his skin and settling there amongst all the hatred he etched into himself every day.
Oscar smiled.
He turned back to the sink, turned on the garbage disposal and tried not to think about how good it would feel to stick his head into it.
*
Nine years ago, Oscar had met Lando for the first time.
It was college orientation. Oscar was majoring in literature with a minor in writing, wide-eyed and eager to take the world by storm with his ideas for the next best-selling young adult novel.
It was his roommate, Logan, that convinced him to go out to a bar that night. If it had been up to Oscar, he would’ve stayed on campus and probably gone to one of the mixers at a frat house. Close enough to leave early and get to bed at a reasonable hour.
Instead, Logan dragged him to a popular club on the opposite end of the city.
They found out later that apparently it was a place frequented by athletes and celebrities. Lando wasn’t exactly worldwide famous yet, but he was close. Runner up in the Formula 2 championship, graduating to F1 at a mere 19 years old. Things were shaping up to work out well for him.
That’s how it went for Lando. Things just worked out for him. They always had, and they continued to. He had loving family, friends, and mentors surrounding him at every angle. His career was on the rise. He was handsome, with a boyish grin and curls that flopped into pretty hazel eyes.
Eyes that caught Oscar’s from across the room and refused to look away.
They spent the night attached at the hip. Oscar found himself charmed in a way that he hadn’t even known was possible. Lando was enigmatic and sweet. Despite his career and status, he listened to Oscar. Remembered things about him. Made him feel special.
Four years of dating led to one year of engagement and four years of marriage. Two kids, three houses sprinkled across Europe, and the knowledge that this was forever.
When he was young, forever had seemed so far away. Infinite, almost.
Lately, time seemed to have frozen. Infinity was moving awfully slowly.
It was a sunny Wednesday morning when Oscar woke up and thought I could do it today.
There were no recitals, no sports games, no appointments. Lando wouldn’t be home until late, whisked away for sim training. The children had a playdate after school that they wouldn’t return from until after dinner.
Oscar sat up in bed and reached for his phone. There were no new notifications. Nothing important enough to wake up for.
There had been a time where he woke up excited for things. A time where inspiration would strike him and he’d write for hours—days, even. In university, he’d once been sitting at the bus stop and become so engrossed in writing the latest chapter of a gut-wrenching horror romance novel he was working on that he’d missed the last bus of the night. He’d ended up having to walk forty-five minutes home.
At the time, it had felt worth it. He would see his book on shelves a few years later and remember that night and smile, he liked to think.
He’d never finished it.
In present day, his lock screen stared back at him, a candid picture of his beautiful kids and doting husband.
Maxine and Charlie, who had never once looked at him with anything but love in their innocent eyes. Lando, who kissed soft promises to adore him forever into his skin every morning and every night.
They would never forgive him.
Oscar sank back into bed and closed his eyes, willing the world away for just a little bit longer.
*
“I was thinking we could leave the kids with Lewis and Nico this weekend and have the house to ourselves for a bit.”
Oscar paused.
He set down the fork in his hand, not really having been eating as much as he had been moving the food on his plate around aimlessly.
“Why?”
Lando kept his voice light, but it was almost painfully obvious how forced it was. His husband’s smile was tight when he looked at him, worry creasing the lines of his handsome face.
“I just thought it might be nice,” he said with a small shrug. “We haven’t really had that much time to ourselves in a while. There’s no race this weekend—be nice to take advantage of it, no? We can go out during the day, maybe hit up a few of our old favorite date spots. Cuddle and watch movies at night.”
Oscar stayed quiet as he stared down at his plate. It had just hit him that he hadn’t put salt in the spaghetti. No wonder it tasted off.
“Osc,” Lando said softly.
He looked up.
His husband set down his own fork before getting up from his seat. He crossed the table until he was by Oscar’s legs, crouching there and looking up at him with the desperation of a man starved for answers.
“Talk to me,” Lando whispered. “Something’s wrong. I can tell. You’ve been so distant lately.”
Oscar was quiet for a moment, thoughts racing.
“How did you eat the spaghetti?”
Lando’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “…What?”
“The spaghetti.” He looked at him, noting the way Lando’s jaw had tensed. “It doesn’t have any salt. How did you eat it? It tastes horrible.”
“It tastes…fine.” His husband shook his head. “What are you—Osc. Baby. Listen to me. Can you tell me what’s been going on with you lately? Please?”
Last night, Oscar had planned on trying to write something. Anything. It didn’t have to be a page. It didn’t even have to have a plot—words on a page would be enough. Would do something to soothe that itch clawing at him from underneath his skin.
But Maxine had spilled her juice onto their new rug, so he’d spent an hour trying to get the stain out of the very expensive item instead. After that, Charlie had woken up to a nightmare and needed to be rocked back to sleep. Then Lando had come home, and they’d slipped into the shower together. The next thing he knew, it was morning again.
And he hadn’t written a word.
“I’m fine,” he sighed, pulling his hands gently out of Lando’s grasp. “You worry too much. Here, give me your plate. I’m going to add some salt into the sauce. It might be too late to fix the flavor, but it might make it taste a little better.”
Lando allowed himself to be nudged aside as Oscar stood up, balancing both their plates in his hands while making his way into the kitchen. He followed closely behind, watching him open the spice cabinet and rummage through it.
“You’ve lost weight,” he remarked quietly.
Oscar hummed to show that he was listening.
Where had he put the salt?
“I can feel your bones if I hug you too tight, Osc,” Lando continued. The words were laced with concern, with fear. “Are you not eating?”
“Don’t be silly.” Oscar emerged from the cabinet, triumphant with the salt shaker clutched in hand.
Truthfully, he’d never been a big eater. Lando knew that, and it had always made him worry. He remembered once, in the months where they’d first started dating, he had hand fed him dumplings while Oscar panic-rewrote the entire first draft of a transcript. He didn’t know what it was that made them taste exceptionally good—if it was that the love of his life was feeding them to him, or if it was because he was doing while he got to write. The thing he loved most.
Nowadays, he didn’t even know if eating while writing would bring him peace let alone euphoria. The routine part of it was nice, having something to do with his hands and his mouth when everyone else was chewing at the dinner table. Honestly speaking, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something when someone hadn’t been watching.
Lando accepted his plate when Oscar handed it to him, only to set it onto the counter immediately after. He pried Oscar’s own plate out of his hands gently, shushing him when he let out a confused protest.
His hands came up to cup his face. They were warm like his eyes, warm like the rest of him.
“Osc,” Lando said softly. “When I look at you sometimes, I feel like you’re looking right through me.”
Oscar reached up to press his hand against one of Lando’s, squeezing it reassuringly.
His husband’s eyes searched his expression desperately. “Where are you, baby? I feel like you’re not with me. I don’t even feel like you’re here right now. Where do you go?”
“I’m right here,” Oscar replied quietly. “You’re worrying too much, Lan. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
It was a sincere promise. It was enough, this love, to keep him tethered here on earth until he went out in whatever way the universe intended. Old age. A car crash. Whatever it may be.
The thing was, Oscar knew what he’d been signing up for when he fell in love. A Formula 1 driver’s husband. He was agreeing to sign away his life, his identity, his dreams.
At the time, he was happy to do it. Because this love was enough.
But back then, it had felt like a choice. His choice. Now, this love had to be enough. It had to be–because it was all he had now.
Lando still didn’t seem entirely satisfied. It was Oscar who lifted his hands then, cupping his face gently and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips.
“I’m right here,” he whispered. “If I ever think I’m going somewhere too far for you to catch me, you’ll know. I promise.”
Lando’s lips seemed to tremble against Oscar’s. His hands had slipped down onto his waist, fingers tightening as if he was afraid he might disappear into thin air right there in his arms.
“You’d tell me,” he murmured. “If something was upsetting you. If something was really wrong. You’d tell me, right?
“I love you,” Oscar sighed into his mouth.
It wasn’t an answer.
Lando didn’t ask again, swallowing the reassurance pressed against his lips like medicine.