Chapter Text
The air at Albert Park was sticky, the humidity high. It felt like the place was humming with a noise that’s all its own, engines growling in the distance, fans calling out names that echo through the long concrete corridors of the paddock. It’s media day at the the first grand prix of the 2025 F1 season and Oscar Piastri walks through the chaos as if he’s not really a part of it at all
He blends in too easily, getting lost in the hustle and bustle of it all. No team colours, no cameras following his every step. Just a slim, worn backpack slung over one shoulder, a lanyard around his neck, and a faint trickle of sweat going down the back of his shirt from Melbourne’s humid air.
On his right, he passes a crowd of fans pressed against the metal barriers. Hands outstretched, shirts and caps and mini-helmets waving like flags. They’re screaming, high-pitched and breathless. The sound doubles in volume as Lando Norris steps through the turnstile gates to enter the paddock. For a moment Oscar cringes, seeing the crowd surge forward and expecting the barriers to collapse from the sheer force.
Lando’s smile is effortless, all easy charm and practiced warmth. Oscar watches as Lando makes his way down the line of fans screaming his name. Wondering briefly how Lando doesn’t get the urge to laugh at the fans crying hysterically at the mere sight of him. Lando crouches slightly to sign a hat for a little boy, jokes with someone about their neon-orange hair, and laughs for the camera someone’s shoved in his face. The kind of laughter that jumps out from the photographs.
Oscar slows his steps without meaning to. Just watching, his eyes tracking as Lando moves through the crowd with ease.
No one screams his name. He tells himself he’s not jealous, that he it’s not bitterness that sits in his chest, at least not exactly. But instead something colder, quieter. Like watching everyone enjoy themselves at a party that you weren’t invited to.
Oscar is jolted out his thoughts by a hand clamping down on his shoulder. He whirls around to meet the narrowed eyes of a security guard, watching him with suspicion. “Pass?” the man asks, sharp and automatic.
Oscar blinks, thrown off. “Oh, yeah, sorry.” He tugs his lanyard forward, flipping the card around so the Alpine logo is clear.
The guard squints, lips pursing as he reads. “Reserve driver, huh?”
There’s a pause. A beat too long. The kind of silence that feels like judgment.
“Yep,” Oscar says finally, forcing a small, polite smile.
“Right.” The man nods slowly still looking vaguely confused and gestures for him to move. “Can’t stand here, mate. Media zone only.”
“Sure.” Oscar steps back, tucks his pass inside his shirt, and keeps walking. He looks back once over his shoulder, Lando is smiling widely as he takes a selfie with two tween girls, both looking like they are on the verge of passing out. Oscar sighs as he focused back on what is in front of him, the lonely walk to the Alpine hospitality suite.
The thing is he’s used to this. He’s used to being the one no one recognises. The quiet one sitting on the wall in the background of a team photo. The stand-in during winter testing. The kid who learns every track in the simulator but never gets to touch asphalt when the world’s watching.
But it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. At twelve years old, he’d packed all he could fit into a large suitcase and backpack, and flown across the world with his Dad, trading Melbourne’s sun for English rain. All because someone had told his parents that was what it would take if he was going to make it in the world of motorsport. His Mum had cried at the airport, hugging him tightly, refusing to let go before his Dad had to pry her off.
His Dad lasted six months before the home sickness and heartache of being away from the rest of his family got too much for him. After long conversations with his parents, both of them ensuring he knew the severity of him staying in England on his own, he moved into the boarding house at his school. He spent the remainder of his schooling years in England doing his best to make friends and fit in, spending time with his family by on FaceTime, and trying not to succumb to the lingering homesickness that made him want to pack it all up and go back to Australia.
At boarding school, he was the kid with the accent. The one who was never around most weekends or holidays because he was always at a karting track or buried in data sheets.
But at the karting tracks and in the motorsport social scenes, he was the child prodigy. The one everyone whispered about making it big one day as he stood on the top podium after beating kids three, four, sometimes five years older than him. At sixteen after winning another European karting championship, he got the call up for a Formula 3 team. He was younger than many of his competitors and despite some vocal doubters, he’d finished runner-up, his name forever etched in the small print beneath the winners on the final standings sheet. At seventeen, he’d come fourth in Formula 2, a performance solid enough to get him noticed, but not enough to make him matter.
A few days after his final Formula 2 race, Alpine had offered him their reserve driver seat, just one step away from the Formula 1 grid. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s been told that that seat would be his one day. Now two years later, at nineteen years old Oscar is about to start his second year as a reserve driver and those promises still haven't come to fruition. Anytime he hears his name mentioned in the media now, its followed by phrases like 'wasted potential', 'unlucky timing' and 'what could've been'. Many people think Oscar's been out of the car too long now, other drivers even saying they would've given up by now and gone to other motorsport competitions, not being able to cope with 12 months of no racing. Honestly, Oscar doesn't know how he manages it most days either.
He keeps walking, past Aston Martin’s sleek green trucks, past the Ferrari garage where Charles Leclerc is laughing with his engineers. The noise rolls like a wave through the paddock, bursts of cameras clicking and shouts of “Charles! Carlos! George!”
Then, up ahead, McLaren with its bright papaya orange, loud music, and crew members buzzing in and out like bees. Cameras and media crew surrounding every inch of space at the hospitality suite entrance.
Lando’s there again, having gotten a golf buggy from the entrance Oscar assumes. He’s standing near the edge of the hospitality building. He has his McLaren polo on, the buttons undone showcasing the tiniest hint of his tanned chest, and his McLaren cap backwards on his head, a couple of curls trying to escape through the opening. A Sky Sports boom mic hovers near his face, and the Natalie Pinkham is chatting away animately with Lando as they wait for their cue to start the interview.
Oscar slows again, caught between curiosity and something else he doesn’t want to name. He’s never really spoken to Lando before. They’ve crossed paths at junior levels, seen each other at events but Lando was always lightyears ahead of Oscar. Lando was the household name, the superstar, the four time World Drivers Champion. Oscar wouldn't be surprised if Lando didn't even know who is was.
Lando Norris had become a name that didn’t need an introduction anymore. He’s a four time World Drivers Champion at twenty eight years old. Lando was signed by Mclaren at 19 years old and quickly proved himself a capable driver against his older, more experienced teammates. Three years later, Lando became the youngest Brit to ever win the drivers championship at twenty two years old. Lando’s rise through the junior ranks had been stuff of legend, karting prodigy, Formula 3 champion, Formula 2 runner up by a single point, and then a McLaren debut that changed everything. Nine seasons later, Lando hadn’t just set the benchmark, he was the benchmark. Calm under pressure, lightning quick in the rain, and so boyishly charming in front of the media and fans that he had everyone cheering for him. For everyone coming up behind him in the junior ranks, Lando represented both the dream and the reminder of how impossibly high the bar was set.
Oscar's brought back to reality when he hears snippets of the interview once it gets started. “…yeah, feeling good about the setup this weekend. The car’s got potential… Albert Park’s always special, isn’t it? Being the first race of the season…” Lando grins as he answers.
Natalie laughs, glancing toward the camera and makes a comment about there not being any Aussie’s on the grid at the moment and asks Lando what he thinks about that.
Lando shrugs, still smiling, “I mean, there might not be now but there is always someone coming up through the ranks. Australia has a lot of motorsport passion and history, I don’t think that’s going to change anytime soon.”
“Have you watched any of the junior categories recently?”
“Not recently no, I haven’t had the time but that is something I do enjoy when I have the chance,” Lando pauses, “there is a young Australian coming up in the junior ranks isn’t there?”
“Umm, you mean Oscar Piastri?” Natalie asks. Oscar’s pulse stutters, he hadn’t expected his name to come up.
Lando scrunches his face like he’s thinking. “Yeah, I’m not sure of his name but he’s a local guy right? Talented, with a good head on his shoulders from what I’ve been told. I reckon a lot of Aussie’s should be excited about watching him race hopefully soon.”
It should make him feel better, hearing that, but it doesn’t. He's heard variations of what Lando's said a million times but it still hasn't landed the seat he's so desperate for.
Lando turns toward the small crowd that’s gathered and starts signing autographs again once the interview end. Oscar realises quickly that he is in the crossfire of fans trying to get as close as possible to Lando. As he tries to manoeuvre his way out of the crowd he finds himself closer to Lando than he wanted to be. Lando’s gaze locks on Oscar's after he finishes signing the hat of the person Oscar finds himself cramped next to.
Lando’s smile is automatic and polite. “Want a photo?” he asks, already reaching for the marker in his hand.
Oscar freezes. “What?”
Lando laughs softly, easy and practiced. “Photo? Or a signature?”
Oscar’s not wearing any team gear, just jeans and a navy hoodie. The lanyard’s tucked inside his shirt again so it’s no surprise that he easily blends in with the person next to him. It hits him then, Lando thinks he’s a fan. Did Lando even know who Oscar was when the interviewer asked? No, he internally sighs, Lando was most likely answering in that media trained way he's perfected over the years, improvising his way through the answer so it doesn’t create any repercussions.
Oscar’s mouth goes dry. “No, I…” But Lando’s already turning back to the next person in line, signing another cap and talking to someone’s phone camera.
Oscar exhales through his nose, a tiny, bitter laugh escaping him before he can stop it. He turns away, he doesn’t look back again as he finally makes his way to the Alpine hospitality.
…
Oscar sits in front of the simulator, the cockpit glowing blue from the LED screens. He’s been at it for hours, endless runs of data gathering, tyre degradation testing, and virtual pit stop scenarios. The kind of work that only gets mentioned in passing during race coverage, if at all.
He pulls off his gloves, flexing his fingers and rubs at the ache in his shoulders.
“Alright, Austin, that’ll do for tonight,” one of the engineers says, voice crackling through the comms.
Oscar blinks. “It’s Oscar.”
There’s a pause, then the sound of shuffling papers. “Oh… right, sorry, mate.”
“Yeah,” Oscar mutters, under his breath, but he doesn’t sound angry, just tired.
He watches as the system is powered down in front of him, watches the screen fade to black, his reflection faint in the glass. Across the room, a group of Alpine staff members are leading a junior Formula 2 driver through the hospitality suite on a tour. He’s all bright smiles, snapping photos, and nodding eagerly as the engineers explain how the simulator works.
Oscar catches the kid’s wide-eyed stare, the way he looks around like he’s seeing the future. He knows that feeling, it used to be his.
When the lights in the simulator room finally flick off, Oscar lingers longer than he should. The silence presses close, the kind that feels heavier after hours of artificial noise, the soft hum of machinery replaced by nothing but his own breathing.
He gathers his things slowly, packing up in that methodical way from years of practice. Headset on its hook, gloves tucked into his bag, the chair adjusted back to default. His movements are efficient but hollow. The kind of routine you learn when you’re used to waiting.
By the time he steps outside, it’s past midnight. Albert Park is unrecognisable at night, the chaos gone, replaced by stillness. Floodlights streaking the shadows of the looming grandstand structures across the ground. The smell of burnt rubber still hangs faintly in the air, mixed with grass and lake water and the distant hum of the city.
Oscar pulls his hoodie tighter and walks. He passes empty hospitality suites, now dark behind the glass windows. Rows of team trucks are lined neatly along the paddock lanes. A few engineers cross paths with him, laughing quietly as they head out, their lanyards swinging, the day done. None of them really look his way. He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.
He reaches the edge of the paddock where the chain-link fences separate the team areas from the fan zones. Earlier today, this spot had been shoulder-to-shoulder with people holding signs, flags, cameras, wearing orange or red or green. He remembers the noise, the electric hum of it all, the way it vibrated through the concrete.
Now it’s empty, just a single discarded poster lying face down in a puddle, the ink bleeding. He turns it over with his shoe. LANDO NORRIS #4. Lando’s signature smudged but still there.
A breath escapes him, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Figures,” he mutters.
There’s no bitterness in it, not real bitterness anyway, more like resignation. The kind that sets in when you’ve spent two years in limbo, doing everything right, waiting for someone else to decide your next step.
He leans against the fence, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes tracing the faint curve of the track in the distance. The floodlights are dimmer there, softer, but he can almost imagine the roar that’ll fill this place tomorrow, the colours, the cameras, the noise. He can almost see himself in it, helmet on, the number 81 shining, adrenaline sharp, that perfect stillness that exists for half a second before the lights go out.
When his phone buzzes in his pocket, the sound startles him. Mum, reads the caller ID. He hesitates before answering. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice rough.
“Hey, love. Thought I'd try you one more time before I headed to bed. Long day?” Nicole Piastri’s voice is soft, warm, familiar. The kind that makes him feel twelve again.
“Yeah. Just finished sim work.”
She hums sympathetically. “Oscar it’s past midnight, you know I think they work you too hard.”
“I know,” Oscar shrugs despite his Mum not being able to see him.
“How’s everything going with the team?” Nicole asks.
“Fine.”
The pause that follows is telling. “Oscar…”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It’s fine, Mum. Really.”
Nicole doesn’t push it, though he can tell she wants to. “Your Dad and I watched the press coverage this morning,” she says instead. “You walked past on one of the shots, near the McLaren garage, I think.”
He laughs, quiet and humourless. “Yeah, I was just… passing by.”
There’s another pause. “You looked good.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ll get there,” she says, like it’s a fact, not a wish.
He closes his eyes. “Yeah.”
When they hang up, he stays still for a long time. The phone screen dims, and his reflection stares back, tired eyes, a half-smile that doesn’t reach them.
On his way out, he cuts back past the McLaren area again, the same one he passed that morning. It’s quiet now too, no media, no cameras, no shouting fans. Just a few crew members packing up cables. The window graphics of Lando and his teammate Alex Dunne shining brightly under the building sensor lights. Even in 2D form Lando’s eyes are piercing, a weird flutter in Oscar’s stomach as it looks like Lando’s eyes are following him as he heads towards the paddock exit.
For a moment, he stops, watching through the half-open door of the McLaren hospitality suite. Inside, a monitor glows faintly, race footage replaying, the sound low. And there, sitting slouched on one of the couches, hair messy and hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, is Lando.
He’s laughing at something one of his engineers says, shoulders shaking. Oscar can’t hear but can picture the sound soft and genuine in his head. It’s strange seeing him like that. Just a guy. Not a headline or a face on a billboard.
For a heartbeat, Oscar almost wants to walk in, say something stupid maybe like introduce himself properly, 'Hey, I’m Oscar. The reserve driver. The one you thought was a fan'. But he doesn’t. He just watches a second longer, then turns and keeps walking.
The parking lot is mostly empty. He finds his car, unlocks it, and drops into the driver’s seat. The engine hums quietly when he turns the key. He rests his head back against the seat, staring up at the roof. He knows what tomorrow will bring, another long day of shadow work, another round of waiting. But somewhere under the exhaustion, under the dull ache in his chest, there’s still something small and stubborn that refuses to go out.
Hope. It’s not loud, not bright, but it’s there. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough. It has to be enough for now.
…
Friday starts early. By the time the sun crept up over Albert Park, Oscar's already been in the paddock for two hours, half of it spent being shuffled from one sponsor appearance to another. A handshake here, a polite smile there. The kind of things that looks good in photos but means nothing in reality.
He wasn’t in team kit today, not properly. Just the lightweight Alpine polo and a jacket that still looked too new, like no one had bothered to make sure it fit him right. The marketing team had handed it to him that morning, tags still attached and told him to “be visible.” The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Everywhere he went, people’s eyes slid past him. The senior staff laughed together by the hospitality entrance, the team principal walking between them, deep in conversation about strategy. No one stopped to say good morning. No one even looked his way.
He stood near the coffee machine for a while, pretending to read his phone, until a group of corporate guests in matching Alpine caps walked through the garage, led by a member of the press department. Oscar didn’t mean to listen. But the words carried easily over the hum of the equipment. “And that’s our operations area, telemetry, engineering stations. You’ll see the drivers come through before sessions, of course. Oh, and that’s Oscar, our reserve kid.”
Reserve kid. The words land softly but linger long after.
He turns slightly, forces a smile when the guests look his way, and then looks back down at his phone. They move on without another glance.
He spends the afternoon in the garage, headphones on, standing quietly behind the engineers as FP1 began. It is familiar, the rhythm of it, the whir of tyres, the static of the radio, the chorus of data chatter. He can read the patterns on the screens instinctively, his eyes tracing tyre temperatures and fuel loads like second nature.
Gasly’s lap comes up in green. Ocon’s in yellow. Oscar tilts his head, Ocon’s braking too early into Turn 11, he thinks. He leans closer to one of the engineers. “If he stays wide through nine, he can carry more speed down the back straight.”
The engineer barely looks up. “We’ve got it covered.”
Right. Of course they do. He steps back, folds his arms, and keeps his thoughts to himself for the rest of the session.
By the end of FP2, Lando had topped both tables. Oscar stared at the timing screen as McLaren’s orange line climbed to P1 again, the commentator’s voice from the garage monitors practically giddy.
“And that’s another fastest lap for Lando Norris! Three tenths clear of Leclerc, what a start to the weekend for the McLaren driver!”
The Alpine engineers don’t say much. Just quiet murmurs about grip and differential settings and how they’d find more tomorrow. Oscar stays silent, he knew how this worked. There was always tomorrow, until there wasn’t.
…
The Hilton Hotel lobby was nearly empty when he finally sat down that night. The cushions of the couch sagged under his weight as he pulls his hoodie up, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the low wooden table in front of him. The faint hum of the bar fridge was the only sound.
His phone screen glows faintly beside him, unread messages from his family, a few well-meaning texts from friends back home. ‘Proud of you! Hope you’re loving it out there!’ He doesn’t know how to reply to any of them.
He isn’t sure what to call this feeling. It isn’t exactly sadness, not even loneliness. Just a kind of emptiness that came from being surrounded by something you loved and knowing it didn’t really see you back.
He rubs his thumb over the edge of the table, tracing the tiny nicks in the wood. The elevator pinged somewhere behind him, and footsteps padded softly across the lobby floor.
“Guess I’m not the only one with jet lag.”
Oscar looks up. Lando stands a few metres away, he has the flimsy hotel slides on his socked feet, hoodie half-zipped over a t-shirt, and curls flattened on one side from sleep. In one hand, he holds a bag of crisps and a bottle of water.
Oscar blinks. “Uh… hi.”
Lando tilts his head, squinting a little. “Wait…” His face lights up with recognition, and he grins. “You’re the guy from the track. Didn’t want a signature, right?”
Oscar feels heat rush to his cheeks before he cN stop it. “Oh. Yeah. That was… me.”
“Didn’t realise I was that scary,” Lando teases lightly, dropping down onto the couch opposite him. “You looked like I’d just asked you to donate an organ.”
Oscar laughes awkwardly, tugging his hood lower. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting you to talk to me, I guess.”
“Why? You hate talking to drivers or something?”
“No. I just…” He hesitates. “You thought I was a fan.”
Lando freezes for a second. “Oh.” There was a beat of silence then Lando continues softly, “Sorry, I gotta stop assuming everyone is a McLaren fan.”
Oscar waves it off quickly, embarrassed. “It’s fine.”
Lando’s silent for a minute, his eyes locking onto Oscar’s paddock pass on the table between them. “You’re with Alpine?”
“Yeah,” Oscar responds quietly. “Reserve driver.”
“Reserve driver?” Lando leans forward, genuinely curious now. “You’re Oscar Piastri?”
Oscar nods.
“Bloody hell,” Lando says under his breath, shaking his head. “I knew your name sounded familiar. You’re the one who nearly won F2 as a rookie, right?”
Oscar smiles faintly. “Fourth, actually. Nearly doesn’t quite count.”
“Still impressive,” Lando says easily. Then, after a pause, “Home race this is isn’t it?”
“Guess so, I’m not exactly driving though,” Oscar shrugs.
“Gotta feel good to be back home though?.”
Oscar shrugs. “It’s… nice, I guess. Haven’t been able to spend much time with my family though. Mostly just been between here and the paddock, lots of sim work.”
Lando leans back, munching on a crisp. “Sounds glamorous.”
“Thrilling, yeah,” Oscar says dryly, and that makes Lando laugh, a soft, genuine sound that fills the quiet space between them.
For a moment, the awkwardness eases. Then silence creeps back in, comfortable but uncertain.
Lando glances toward the elevators. “Well, I should probably get some sleep before tomorrow. Got media from hell starting at seven.”
“Right.”
He stands, then hesitated. “Hey, sorry again for earlier. Didn’t mean to be a dick.”
“You weren’t,” Oscar says, meaning it. “Honestly.”
Lando gives him a small, lopsided smile. “Still. I’ll remember the name next time.”
Oscar smiles back, a little shyly. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“Deal.”
And with that, Lando nods, stuffs the half-empty crisp bag into his hoodie pocket, and disappears into the elevator.
Oscar sits there for a while longer, staring at the reflection of the ceiling lights on the polished table. For the first time in days, he felt… seen. Not entirely, not deeply, but just enough to remind him that maybe he wasn’t invisible after all.