Chapter Text
The balcony of the hotel overlooked Zandvoort's beachfront, the North Sea churning dark and restless beneath a sky that had gone from victory gold to funeral grey in what felt like seconds. Atleast for Lando, it had.
He'd spent most of tonight after he race switching drinks as they got stronger and stronger, and fucking hell had they been strong. He'd tried to take his mind of shit, go out with Verstappen and Leclerc and the other guys. It had been strange enough. They'd been patronizingly nice to him, and it had creeped into the back of Lando's skin like mold. He hated that cloying niceness that came with people pitying him.
Lando Norris leaned heavily against the railing of his hotel room, the metal biting cold even through his hoodie, and tried to remember when exactly everything had gone to complete shit.
Oh right. Lap 65. When his engine had decided to spectacularly grenade itself in a cloud of white smoke and shattered dreams. Fucking hell. The vodka bottle in his hand was three-quarters empty, or one-quarter full if you were an optimist, which Lando decidedly fucking wasn't right now.
The joint he'd finished twenty minutes ago had left everything pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, softening the sharp corners of his catastrophic failure into something almost bearable. Almost. His phone buzzed again. Probably his mum. Or Dad. Maybe Will or Max. Or literally anyone who gave enough of a shit to check if he was okay, which was hilarious because he was absolutely not okay, thanks for asking. Hilarious too because, really, Lando didn't deserve to be asked how he was after this failure. Logically, Lando knew that the fucking engine failure wasn't his fault, but if Landos hadn't been such a fucking bottler all season, this wouldn't have been too bed.
Magui had left an hour ago, her perfectly practiced sympathetic expression slipping the moment she thought he wasn't looking. The PR relationship had always been a joke, a perfectly convenient arrangement for both of them, but tonight it felt more hollow than usual. Maybe because the woman was embarrassed she was having to pretend to date such a loser. She'd squeezed his shoulder, said something in Portuguese that he didn't understand and didn't care to translate, and disappeared in a cloud of expensive perfume and relief.
His family was still back home. They'd video called once, and that had been a bit too much for Lando, so he'd proceeded to ignore all calls since. His dad had that look in his eyes, the one that said he was disappointed but trying very hard not to show it. His mum had smiles at him too tight, and his brother had just shaken his head because what the fuck was there to say, really?
Thirty four points behind Oscar now. Oscar fucking Piastri. His teammate. His friend, supposedly, though they operated on a frequency of mutual antagonism that most people mistook for hatred. Maybe it was hatred. Lando wasn't sure anymore. He took another swig from the bottle, the vodka burning down his throat like liquid regret. The world tilted pleasantly, and he gripped the railing harder. The championship was done. Mathematically possible, sure, but realistically? Fuck no. Oscar's car ran like a fucking Swiss watch while Lando's decided to cosplay as a fireworks display. And as much as Lando's avoided bringing it up to the team, Oscar's pit stops are always fast. Unlike Lando's.
He looked down at the concrete below, at the decorative rocks landscaping the hotel's perimeter. It was a decent drop. Four floors. Maybe five if you counted the ground floor as something other than ground. The thought crystallized with startling clarity through the haze of crossfaded numbness: he could just... stop. All of it. The disappointment, the pressure, the fucking constant weight of everyone's expectations crushing down on his shoulders until he couldn't breathe. He'd thought about it before, in passing, the way everyone probably did. But this time felt different.This time felt possible.
Lando set the vodka bottle down on the balcony floor carefully, precisely, like this was just another normal thing he was doing. He studied the railing. Standard height, maybe three and a half feet. Easy enough to climb if you weren't absolutely wasted. He was absolutely wasted. Fuck it. He considered his options with the serious deliberation of someone making an important life decision, which this technically was, in a permanent sort of way.
Pills seemed too slow, too uncertain. He'd probably just wake up with his stomach pumped and everyone looking at him with that fucking pitying expression. Cutting was messy and his pain tolerance was shit. Driving into something would take a car he didn't have access to right now. But this? This was immediate. Dramatic. No room for second thoughts or rescue attempts. Perfect.
Lando grabbed the railing and pulled himself up, his trainers scrabbling against the metal bars. His coordination was absolutely fucked, and it took three attempts before he managed to get one leg over. "Come on, you useless fuck," he muttered to himself, hauling his other leg up, "don't be a fucking pussy."
For a horrifying second, he teetered on top of the railing, arms windmilling, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of accidentally falling before he meant to. Then he was over, feet on the narrow ledge on the outside of the balcony, hands gripping the railing behind him. The wind immediately tried to shove him off, and his stomach swooped with a mixture of vertigo and vodka. The drop looked a lot fucking farther from this side.
"Okay," he said aloud, his voice swallowed by the wind. "Okay, yeah, this is fine. This is good. This is-"
"What the actual fuck are you doing?" Lando's head snapped to the side so fast he nearly lost his balance. Oscar Piastri stood in the doorway of the balcony, wearing joggers and a McLaren team shirt, his hair mussed like he'd been sleeping, or like he's just taken his helmet off, standing in that oddly endearing way it did. His expression was caught between fury and disbelief. Of course. Of fucking course it was Oscar.
"Bit busy here, mate," Lando called back, his words slurring together. "Fuck off."
"Get back over the railing, you absolute muppet." Oscar's voice was sharp, controlled, but there was something else underneath it. Something that might have been fear if Oscar Piastri was capable of fear. "No, I don't think I will, actually." Lando smiled, bright and bitter. "I'm making an executive decision about my life, thanks. You're the championship leader now, you should be celebrating. Go away."
Oscar moved onto the balcony slowly, like Lando was a skittish animal that might bolt. Which was funny because there was nowhere to bolt to except down, and that was rather the point. "Lando. Come on. Don't be a fucking idiot."
"Too late for that! Already fucked my championship, might as well fuck everything else too." Lando laughed, high and strained. "Consistent, see? That's what everyone wants from me. Consistency."
"You're drunk," Oscar said, still approaching with that careful, measured pace that made Lando want to scream. "I'm crossfaded, actually. Get it right if you're going to judge me." Lando's grip on the railing tightened.
"And you're still here why? Don't you have a championship to celebrate? Oh wait, you don't celebrate, do you? Too fucking Australian and iceman-y for that."
"Get back over the railing." Oscar was close now, maybe ten feet away. Close enough that Lando could see the genuine anger in his eyes. There was something almost hysterical in the way oscar was moving now. Lando was probably imagining it.
"Now."
"Or what? You'll tell Zak? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to lose both his drivers in one night." Lando looked back down at the drop, his vision swimming. "Actually, might help your championship run. No teammate to worry about."
"Jesus Christ, you're such a dramatic prick when you're wasted." Oscar stopped at the railing, his hands gripping the metal. "And you know what? I don't give a fuck about the championship right now. Get. Back. Over."
"Why?" Lando demanded, and he hated how his voice cracked. "Why the fuck do you care? You won. You're going to win the championship because my fucking car decided to explode, and you'll be the golden boy, and I'll be the driver who couldn't even beat his fucking rookie teammate-"
"I'm not a fucking rookie anymore, for fuck's sake, we're in our third year together—"
"SECOND year as teammates, you pedantic asshole!"
"-and you're not thinking straight! It's 2025, Norris, that's three years." Oscar's voice rose to match Lando's, sharp and furious. "You're drunk off your ass and high and you don't actually want this!"
"Bold of you to assume you know what I want," Lando shot back. The wind gusted harder, and he swayed slightly, his trainers sliding on the narrow ledge. Oscar's hand shot out, instinctive, even though there was no way he could reach. "Lando-"
"I'm so fucking tired, Oscar." The words came out quieter now, more honest. "I'm tired of losing. I'm tired of being almost good enough. I'm tired of everyone looking at me like I'm wasting my potential or letting them down or- fuck, I'm just tired."
"Then come back over and we'll talk about it." Oscar's voice had gentled slightly, though he still sounded pissed. "Like adults. Not like whatever the fuck this is."
"This is me making a decision for once," Lando said. "Not McLaren's decision. Not my dad's. Not the fucking PR team's. Mine."
"This isn't a decision, this is you being a self-destructive idiot because you had a shit race," Oscar snapped. "And I'm not going to stand here and watch you kill yourself over a fucking DNF."
"It's not just the DNF!" Lando's voice cracked again, and god, he hated how pathetic he sounded. "It's everything! It's every fucking time I get close and then something happens and I lose, and I'm so fucking tired of losing, Oscar. I'm tired of being the nearly man. The what-if driver. The one with potential who never actually delivers. I'm tired of bottling every single fucking race and having media slander well fucking deserved mud over my name."
"That's bullshit and you know it," Oscar said flatly. "You've had a shit run of luck this season, but-"
"Luck?" Lando laughed, the sound harsh, mockin, in a way Lando never was. "When does it stop being luck and start being me, huh? When do I accept that maybe I'm just not good enough?"
"You're good enough, you're just being a fucking idiot right now." Oscar's hands were white-knuckled on the railing. "And you're going to feel like a complete prick in the morning when you realize you almost did this."
"Maybe I won't feel anything in the morning," Lando said, looking down again. "That's the point."
"Lando. Look at me." Against his better judgment, Lando looked. Oscar's expression was hard, angry, but there was something else there too. Something that looked almost like desperation.
"You think I'm going to let you jump?" Oscar asked, his voice low and dangerous. "You think I'm going to stand here and do nothing?"
"What are you going to do? You can't reach me from there." Lando's smile was all edges. "And I'm not coming back over."
"Then I guess we're at an impasse," Oscar said. They stared at each other, the wind howling between them. "You know what the fucked up thing is?" Lando said finally. "You're probably the only person who actually gets it. How much it fucking sucks to be this close and have it slip away. Except you don't let it slip, do you? You just fucking win."
"I fucked up in Melbourne," Oscar said. "And Silverstone. And-"
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because you're going to win the championship anyway!" Lando's voice rose again. "You're going to win and everyone's going to forget that I was ever in contention, and you know what they'll say? They'll say Oscar Piastri beat his teammate in equal machinery. They'll say Lando Norris couldn't handle the pressure. They'll say that-"
"I don't give a fuck what they say," Oscar cut him off. "And neither should you. Since when do you care about what people think?"
"Since always," Lando said harshly. "I've always cared. That's the problem.
Oscar was quiet for a moment. "If you jump, I'm jumping after you."
Lando blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." Oscar's expression was deadly serious. "You go over, I go over. So either we both die, or you get your ass back over this railing and we deal with your shit like adults."
"You're bluffing."
"Try me." They stared at each other again. Lando tried to read Oscar's expression, looking for the lie, the manipulation. But Oscar looked completely, utterly sincere.
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Lando said finally. "Why the fuck would you do that?"
"Because you're my teammate, you absolute dickhead," Oscar said, his voice rough. "And yeah, we give each other shit, and yeah, I'm probably going to beat you to the championship this year, but that doesn't mean I want you fucking dead."
"Teammate," Lando repeated, tasting the word. "That's all?"
Oscar's jaw tightened. "We're friends too. Even if you're a complete brat most of the time."
"You're one to talk, Mr. Personality. Better a brat than a brick wall."
"At least I don't try to kill myself every time something goes wrong," Oscar shot back.
"First time for everything."
"Yeah, and it's going to be the last time if I have anything to say about it." Oscar shifted his weight. "Come on, Lando. Please. Just come back over." The 'please' caught Lando off guard. Oscar didn't do please. Oscar did blunt statements and dry sarcasm and occasionally withering looks, but he didn't do please.
"I don't..." Lando started, then stopped. His legs were starting to shake, whether from the alcohol or the adrenaline or the sheer terror of where he was standing, he wasn't sure. "I don't know if I can."
"Yes, you can," Oscar said firmly. "One leg at a time. I'll help you."
"You can't reach-"
"Then lean forward and I'll grab you."
"What if I fall?"
"Then I guess we're both going over." Oscar's voice was matter-of-fact. "But you're not going to fall. You're going to get your ass back over this railing, and then I'm going to make you drink about a gallon of water, and then you're going to pass out in my room because I sure as fuck am not leaving you alone tonight."
"I don't need a babysitter," Lando mumbled, but the fight was draining out of him. The drop looked terrifying now, not peaceful. What the fuck had he been thinking?
"Yeah, well, you're getting one anyway. Come on." Oscar extended his hand, stretching as far as he could reach. "Grab on." Lando looked at Oscar's hand, then down at the drop, then back at Oscar's hand. His decision-making was definitely impaired, but even drunk, he could recognize the better option.
"If I fall, I'm haunting your ass," he said.
"I'd expect nothing less. Now come on." Lando took a deep breath that tasted like salt and fear. He shifted his weight forward, reaching for Oscar's hand. His trainer slipped on the ledge and for a heart-stopping moment, he felt himself tipping backward. Then Oscar's hand locked around his wrist like a vice. "I've got you," Oscar said, his voice strained. "Swing your leg over." Lando tried. His coordination was shit, and his other hand was still gripping the railing behind him, and everything was spinning, and— "Lando, you need to let go of the railing," Oscar said.
"Can't."
"Yes, you can. I'm not letting go. I swear I'm not letting go."
"Promise?"
"I fucking promise, you melodramatic twat. Now let go." Lando let go. For a terrifying second, he was suspended in mid-air, held up only by Oscar's grip on his wrist. Then Oscar's other hand grabbed his forearm, and Oscar was pulling, and Lando was trying to get his leg up and over the railing, and— His foot caught on the metal and he pitched forward. Oscar stumbled backward with Lando's full weight suddenly in his arms, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs on the balcony floor.
Lando's head cracked against the concrete and he saw stars. Oscar swore viciously, his elbow probably bruised from breaking his own fall. They lay there for a moment, breathing hard. "You're a fucking idiot," Oscar said finally, still on his back on the balcony floor, Lando half on top of him. "You said that already," Lando mumbled into Oscar's shoulder. "It bears repeating." Oscar shoved at him. "Get off me, you weigh a ton."
"Fuck you, I'm light as a feather." But Lando rolled off, every movement sending nauseating waves through his head. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him shaky and cold and suddenly very aware of what he'd almost done. "I'm going to be sick," he announced. "If you puke on me, I'm throwing you back over the railing," Oscar threatened, but he was already helping Lando sit up, positioning him away from both of them. Lando dry-heaved a few times but nothing came up. He slumped against the balcony wall, shivering. Oscar sat next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
"I'm sorry," Lando said finally, his voice small. "Sorry for what? Being a suicidal idiot or giving me a heart attack?" Oscar's voice was sharp, but his hand was gentle as he checked Lando's head for damage from where it had hit the ground. "Both, I guess." "You should be." Oscar's hands were shaking slightly as he examined Lando's skull. "Fuck, Lando. What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't," Lando admitted. "I was drunk and high and everything hurt and I just... I wanted it to stop hurting."
"So you decided to jump off a fucking building."
"Seemed logical at the time." "Nothing about that was logical, you absolute muppet." Oscar's voice cracked slightly. "You scared the shit out of me." Lando looked at him, surprised. Oscar's expression was furious, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Are you... are you crying?" Lando asked, incredulous.
"Fuck off, no." Oscar swiped at his eyes roughly. "I'm allergic to idiots trying to kill themselves."
"Osc-"
"No. You don't get to 'Osc' me right now." Oscar stood abruptly, pulling Lando up with him. Lando swayed dangerously, and Oscar's arm went around his waist to steady him. "You're coming to my room. And you're staying there. And if you try any more stupid shit, I'm calling your mum."
"That's a low blow," Lando mumbled, but he let Oscar half-drag, half-carry him toward the door. "Yeah, well, I'm fresh out of high blows after watching my teammate try to fucking die." Oscar's voice was harsh. "So you get the low blows tonight."
They made it back inside. The hallway was blessedly empty. Oscar's room was three doors down from Lando's, and he managed to get them inside without anyone seeing them. The room was neat, organized in a way that Lando's never was. Oscar's laptop was open on the desk, some racing sim data pulled up on the screen. His suitcase was perfectly packed in the corner. Oscar deposited Lando on the bed with more force than strictly necessary.
"Stay," he ordered, pointing at Lando like he was a misbehaving dog.
"Woof," Lando said weakly.
Oscar disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a glass of water and some paracetamol. He shoved both at Lando. "Drink. All of it."
Lando drank. The water tasted like metal and shame and sheer self hatred. Oscar watched him with crossed arms, his expression still thunderous.
"You're going to feel like absolute shit in the morning."
"I feel like shit now."
"Good. Maybe you'll remember this feeling next time you decide to do something monumentally fucking stupid." Oscar ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "Jesus Christ, Lando."
"I'm sorry," Lando said again. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean. "I really am sorry. I don't... I don't know what I was thinking."
"You weren't thinking. That's the problem." Oscar sat down on the bed next to him, heavily. "You were drunk and high and your brain wasn't working properly, and you made a decision that you wouldn't have made sober."
"How do you know?" Lando asked quietly. "How do you know I wouldn't have made the same decision sober?"
Oscar was quiet for a moment. "Because I know you. And yeah, you're dramatic and self-destructive and you spiral when things go wrong, but you're not... you don't actually want to die. You're just tired of dealing with the shit in your life, and your drunk brain decided the best solution was to stop existing."
"That sounds pretty accurate, actually," Lando admitted. "Which is why drunk you doesn't get to make life-or-death decisions," Oscar said firmly. "Drunk consent isn't consent, remember? That applies to consenting to jumping off buildings too." Lando huffed out a weak laugh. "You and your fucking consent lectures."
"They've saved your ass more times than you know," Oscar said. "Including tonight, apparently." They sat in silence for a moment. Lando could feel exhaustion pulling at him, the vodka and weed and adrenaline crash all combining to make his limbs heavy and his eyelids heavier. "Why did you come find me?" he asked. b
Oscar shrugged uncomfortably. "I heard something on the balcony. Thought it might be a bird or something, but then I looked out and saw your dumb ass climbing over the railing."
"Lucky timing."
"Yeah." Oscar's voice was odd. "Lucky." Lando looked at him more closely.
"You came looking for me, didn't you?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Oscar."
Oscar sighed, long and frustrated. "I saw you earlier. When Magui left. You looked... I don't know. Wrong. And I know you do stupid shit when you spiral, so yeah, I came to check on you. Happy now?"
"You care about me," Lando said, something like wonder in his voice.
"Of course I fucking care about you, you idiot," Oscar snapped. "Why do you think I just physically hauled your ass back from a suicide attempt? For fun?"
"You never say it though."
"I'm saying it now." Oscar's jaw was tight. "I care about you. You're my teammate and my friend, and even though you drive me absolutely mental most of the time, I don't want you dead. Okay? Is that clear enough for you?"
"Yeah," Lando said softly. "Yeah, okay."
"Good. Now lie down before you fall over."
Lando obeyed, curling onto his side on top of the couch. Oscar grabbed a blanket from the closet and threw it over him.
"You're staying here tonight," Oscar said, his tone brooking no argument. "I'm sleeping in the chair, and if you try to leave, I'm tackling you."
"Kinky."
"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep."
But Oscar's voice had lost some of its sharp edge. He pulled the desk chair over next to the bed and sat down, his laptop balanced on his knees.
Lando watched him through heavy eyelids. "Oscar?"
"What?"
"Thank you. For... you know. Not letting me die."
Oscar's expression softened, just slightly. "Yeah, well. Someone's got to keep your dramatic ass alive. Might as well be me."
"You're a good friend," Lando mumbled, already half-asleep.
"You're a terrible friend, but I guess I'm stuck with you," Oscar said, but there was no heat in it.
Lando smiled into the pillow. "You're still a dick though."
"Right back at you, mate."
The last thing Lando remembered before sleep took him was Oscar's quiet typing, the sound somehow comforting in the darkness. He was safe. He was alive.
And tomorrow, he'd have to deal with the consequences of tonight. But for now, with Oscar keeping watch like the world's most irritable guardian angel, he could just sleep.