Chapter Text
The season had gone on, and Lando's mask grew heavier. He kept up the act for the cameras, smiled through the interviews, cracked jokes in the paddock, but to those who knew him best, the cracks in his facade were becoming impossible to ignore. Lando’s usual fire, the spark that made him such an electrifying presence both on and off the track, was slowly fading. His teammates, his rivals, and even the media started noticing. The smiles felt forced, the jokes hollow. Something was off.
Oscar, his teammate at McLaren, had always been a perceptive young driver. Over the past few months, he’d watched Lando, his close friend, pull further and further away. He noticed the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he’d stare at the race maps in silence before a session, as if trying to convince himself that he was still in control. But Oscar knew better.
One evening, after a disappointing race at Spa, Oscar found Lando staring into space in the McLaren motorhome, his fingers absentmindedly flipping through a race strategy notebook. The once vibrant driver was now a shadow of himself.
“Lando?” Oscar asked gently, approaching him. “You alright?”
Lando blinked slowly, as if he hadn’t even realized someone was speaking to him. He let out a soft exhale, and for a brief moment, the wall around him cracked. “Yeah... just... tired,” Lando replied, his voice tight.
Oscar took a step closer, lowering his voice. “It’s more than just being tired, mate. I can see it. You’re not okay.”
Lando’s lips curved into a forced smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’m fine, Oscar. Just need to focus. You know how it is."
Oscar wasn’t convinced. He had been around Lando long enough to recognize when he was hiding something. But Lando didn’t want to talk about it—not then, not now. So, Oscar stayed quiet, though the worry gnawed at him.
The following races were a blur. Lando continued to push himself, trying to keep up with the ever-constant demands of Formula 1. But it was clear he was losing his grip—both on his driving and on his mental state. In Silverstone, Lando misjudged an overtaking maneuver and ended up spinning off the track, collecting gravel and making the car nearly impossible to control. In Monaco, another near-miss, and a crash that left him frustrated beyond belief.
It was at the Italian Grand Prix in Monza that the pressure became unbearable. The air was thick with anticipation. It was a race that always brought out the best in drivers—fast, unforgiving, and demanding precision at every corner. Lando was determined to prove he still had what it took. But the truth was, he wasn’t driving with his usual confidence. He was driving scared. Scared of making another mistake, scared of losing everything.
The lights went out, and the race began with the usual roar of engines. Lando surged forward but struggled to hold his position, his confidence slipping with every lap. Every turn felt like a battle, and every straight felt like it was getting longer. His focus waned, but the pressure in his head only grew.
Lap 35.
Lando was battling hard, trying to make up time after a poor pit stop. As he approached Turn 12, a sharp, fast corner, something inside him snapped. Maybe it was the fatigue, or the constant worrying, or perhaps the pressure of knowing that every mistake—every slip-up—meant more than just points lost. It meant confirmation that he wasn’t good enough.
As he broke for the corner, the car didn’t respond the way he expected. His rear tires locked, and before he could react, the back end slid out, and the car violently slammed into the barriers. The impact was brutal. The force of the crash sent a sickening crack through the air. The car ricocheted off the guardrail, twisting and crumpling like an accordion before finally coming to a halt, its front end completely destroyed.
There was a moment of silence—terrible, absolute silence. Lando’s McLaren sat motionless, a crumpled heap of metal and carbon fiber. The screech of the tires, the crash of the car into the barriers—everything that had happened in the blink of an eye felt frozen in time.
Oscar’s heart stopped as he watched the monitors from the pits. He had been watching Lando closely throughout the race, noticing the growing mistakes, the flashes of hesitation. Then, in an instant, Lando’s car had disappeared from the screen. Oscar’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the red flags waved, the message blinking across the timing screens.
"Accident: Lando Norris."
Oscar’s legs went weak. He didn’t even think. He bolted out of the garage, ignoring the calls from his engineer, not even registering the safety team as they rushed by him.
The moment Oscar reached the scene, he was met by a blur of marshals and medical staff already working frantically around Lando’s car. It felt like the world had slowed down around him—his heart pounding in his chest, every breath coming in ragged gasps. He couldn’t move, could barely think. All he could do was stand frozen as the medical team worked tirelessly, trying to get Lando out of the wreckage.
It wasn’t long before the announcement came. The race had been called off due to the severity of the crash, and Lando had been taken to the medical center. The entire grid had been asked to return to the pits, the drivers leaving their cars behind in silence.
As Oscar was ushered into the McLaren motorhome, he didn’t know what to feel—whether it was relief, fear, or something far darker. His hands were trembling as he sat on the couch, his mind racing, his thoughts running wild. He had to know. He had to see Lando, to make sure he was okay.
Minutes later, his phone buzzed with a notification. It was a message from Lando’s manager.
"Lando is stable but has sustained significant head trauma and a few broken bones. He’s being transported to the hospital immediately."
Oscar exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of the news settle over him. Stable. But not okay. Not by a long shot.
He paced the room, every nerve on edge, his thoughts a storm. He wanted to rush to the hospital, to be there for Lando, but he couldn’t. The paddock was still alive with the aftermath of the crash. It was all he could do to sit there and wait.
The hospital was a blur of white walls, fluorescent lights, and muffled voices as Oscar finally arrived, his heart in his throat. He’d been told Lando was in a coma. The doctors didn’t know how long it would take for him to wake up, or if he would even make it through the night.
Oscar stood outside the room, his hand resting on the cold metal doorframe, feeling helpless. He had never seen Lando like this—fragile, broken. This wasn’t the driver who had always been full of life, full of energy. This wasn’t the Lando who had been his teammate, his friend.
This was something entirely different.
“I’m sorry, Oscar,” a voice broke through his thoughts. It was Zak Brown, McLaren’s team principal. “We’re doing everything we can. The doctors are hopeful, but…” Zak trailed off, looking at the door to Lando’s room. “We just have to wait.”
Oscar didn’t respond, not trusting his voice. He couldn’t speak; the lump in his throat was too big. He wanted to be strong for Lando, to be the teammate Lando had always been for him, but right now, he felt completely powerless.
“I should’ve done something,” Oscar whispered under his breath. “I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve reached out more.”
Zak placed a hand on his shoulder. “Oscar, this is not your fault. You’re not responsible for what happened on that track. You were there for him when he needed you most.”
Oscar swallowed hard. His gaze returned to the hospital door, where Lando lay unconscious, clinging to life.
What hurt the most was the thought that maybe, just maybe, Lando had been trying to tell him something—trying to reach out in the only way he knew how. But the pressure had overwhelmed him, and it was too late.
The tears Oscar had been holding back for so long finally spilled over, but they weren’t just for Lando. They were for the friend he had lost, and for the person who, despite it all, had never stopped fighting.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Oscar was allowed to visit Lando. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at his unconscious teammate, unable to believe what had happened. The driver who had been so full of life, who had so much potential, was now reduced to a broken shell of who he had once been. The doctors were hopeful, but Oscar knew better than to take hope at face value.
He reached out, taking Lando’s hand in his. “You’re gonna wake up, right?” Oscar whispered softly, as if Lando could hear him. "You’re stronger than this. I know you are."
But as the minutes passed, the silence in the room only deepened. Oscar couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be too late, that the weight of Lando’s pain—the pressure, the loneliness—had finally crushed him. And it hurt more than he could ever explain.