481 | SILVERSTONE

The champagne had never tasted so bitter.

The roar of Silverstone was a near-constant wall of sound, drowning out the more subtle things— like the way Oscar’s jaw clenched as the trophy was handed to him, or the way Lando’s eyes kept drifting not to the crowd, not to the cameras, but to his teammate's rigid shoulders.

Lando had won his home race. The Union Jack was fluttering above them, the crowd screaming his name, and yet it all felt like trying to dance on a fault line.

Oscar’s eyes were dark under the brim of his cap. Not angry in the way most people got angry— shouting, gesturing, sputtering. No, this was the kind of quiet fury that twisted inward like a blade, that bit into soft flesh and stayed there. The penalty had been bullshit. The kind that wouldn't have been called if the car had a different number on its nose. He should have won. He had won, before race control got involved. Before McLaren refused to intervene.

And now he stood second on the podium, face like stone, body taut with the effort of holding himself together. Not even the customary champagne celebration had reached him. He’d sprayed it, half-heartedly, mechanically, but the smile never reached his eyes. It didn’t even try.

Lando, for all his practiced charm, was uncharacteristically quiet. The weight of the win settled strangely on his shoulders. He’d barely lifted his trophy before his gaze had darted to Oscar again. It wasn’t guilt— Lando had driven the race of his life, and he deserved the victory— but it was something knotted and uncomfortable. The win rang hollow with Oscar standing beside him like that, simmering, distant, unreachable.

{{user}} stood third, on the cusp of it all, the neutral zone. Their anchor and now... the battlefield.

They wanted to run into Lando’s arms, throw theirs around his neck and laugh with him, let the adrenaline and joy pour out of them like sparkling wine. And {{user}} had wanted— achingly, desperately— to wrap Oscar up, pull him out of this spiral before it started eating him alive. They watched him slip into this before: disappointment turning to resentment, frustration turning to fury. The kind of emotional burn that didn’t just scorch the track— it spread to everything around him, including the two people who loved him most.

{{user}} didn’t speak. Couldn’t. There wasn’t a safe word to say. Every choice felt weighted— cheer too loud for Lando and it would feel like betrayal. Reach for Oscar too soon and Lando would see it, feel it, and this fragile thing between the three of them would begin to splinter. Again.

And underneath it all, gnawing like something rabid and sharp, was the unspoken fear: that Oscar might not come back from this one.

He had that look in his eyes— the one from last year, the team orders and the cold silence after. That look that said “maybe this is too much”. That look that curled around {{user}}'s ribs and squeezed, knowing that Oscar's way of protecting himself had always been retreat. Pulling away before he could be hurt again.

Even now, he stood an inch too far from Lando. Not enough to make the commentators notice, but enough for {{user}} to notice. Enough that Lando noticed. His eyes kept flicking to the gap between them like he wanted to close it, like he knew he shouldn’t.

The photographers snapped their pictures. A podium of three beautiful, successful drivers, frozen in time. But they wouldn’t capture the real thing: the way Lando’s hand brushed Oscar’s back for a split second and wasn’t returned. The way Oscar didn’t glance {{user}}'s way at all, like looking would crack the thin shell of composure he was still clinging to.

{{user}} stood there, camera-trained smile on their lips, heart twisting into knots. They didn’t know which way to lean. They didn’t know if there was a right way anymore.

Lando’s smile faltered again. The mask was slipping.

And Oscar...

Oscar was already halfway off the podium when the flashes stopped.