Archive of Our Own

It was getting late.

Oscar knew it without needing to check the time. The light filtering into the kitchen had shifted into that washed-out grey that meant evening was thinking about happening, but hadn’t quite committed yet. 

He leaned back against the counter, phone face-down beside the sink, a half-finished mug of coffee cooling by his elbow. It had gone cold enough that he should probably stop pretending he was going to drink it, but he hadn’t tipped it down the sink yet. Inexplicably, it felt like admitting defeat, somehow.

Lando was supposed to be here already.

He wasn't late late. Just… later than the time Oscar had decided in his head was correct - which was not a schedule Lando had ever been aware of, let alone agreed to. 

Oscar checked the clock on the oven anyway. They had a while before dinner - which would only be the two of them staying home, steaming some meal-plan approved chicken and vegetables. It was hardly as if they had a fixed timeline. It really didn't matter. He exhaled through his nose, a little amused at himself, a little restless.

If nothing else, hunger would dictate that Lando would be here soon enough. Probably forgetting the key Oscar had given him so that he didn't need to wait around outside - pulling his hood low as he waited for Oscar to answer the intercom in an effort to go unnoticed, but really only increasing the chance of making the neighbours nervous. 

Oscar drummed his fingers once against the countertop, then stilled them. He told himself he wasn't waiting. Just… standing. Patiently.

It wasn't worth doing anything now. The flat was tidy. Dinner could wait until Lando arrived. And if he started watching something on Netflix now, Murphy's Law dictated that Lando would arrive just as things were getting good. 

The flat was quiet in that way that makes every sound feel louder than it should be - the hum of the fridge, the faint rush of traffic outside, the neighbour upstairs pacing with the determined tread of someone who doesn’t believe in rugs. 

The intercom buzzed.

Oscar didn’t even look at it, too busy rolling his eyes at the predictability of it all. He reached out and pressed the button on instinct, thumb moving before his brain had fully caught up.

“Yeah,” he said, already turning away. “Come on up.”

He smiled to himself, small and private. Lando always used his key... except when he didn’t. Which was often enough that Oscar had stopped questioning it. He may be able to memorise racing lines and engine modes with the best of them, but in everyday life his boyfriend was perpetually forgetful. 

There was a brief pause. Then the intercom clicked off. Not unusual; it wasn't like Lando didn't know where he was going.

Oscar pushed off the counter and headed for the front of the flat, already half-composing the mild reprimand he was going to deliver when Lando came through the door. Forgot your key again, Norris? He could picture Lando's easy smile, the flirty way he would offer to make it up to him as he greeted Oscar with a kiss. 

He opened his mouth to say it just as the doorbell rang.

“Forgot your-”

He stopped.

The man standing in the hallway was not Lando.

He was older, for one thing, with greying hair... and he was wearing a police uniform. There was another figure beside him, a woman - her expression careful and professional in a way that immediately set Oscar on edge. 

“Oh,” Oscar said, unintelligently.

His first thoughts were panicked and immediate, tumbling over each other like dominoes: something’s happened. An accident. A crash. A call he missed. His mum, his dad, one of his sisters - his chest tightened sharply, a spike of adrenaline cutting through the domestic calm like glass. 

He hadn’t done anything wrong. He knew that. Still, his stomach dropped anyway.

“Can I help you?” he asked, because that’s what you're meant to say.

“Mr Piastri?” the woman asked. Her voice neutral, not unkind. Not like Oscar imagined it would sound like if he was about to be arrested. The thought didn't bring him much comfort.

“Yes.” Oscar swallowed. “That’s me.”

“I’m Detective Inspector Harris. This is Sergeant Collins.” She offered her warrant card briefly - not shoving it in his face, just enough that he couldn't pretend it was something else. “We were hoping to have a word with you.”

Oscar’s pulse was loud in his ears. He nodded once, stiffly. “Is-” He cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”

They exchanged a glance. It was quick, practised. Oscar didn’t miss it.

“We’d like to talk to you about a man named Tim Davis.”

And just like that, Oscar's entire world tilted on its axis.

For a long time afterwards, Oscar thought of it as Before and After, but at fourteen he didn’t know that yet. He didn't really know much of anything.

At fourteen, everything is still just forwards.

He moved from Melbourne to England in the middle of the school year, because racing calendars don’t care about term dates and neither did ambition. His parents told him he was brave; that they were proud of him for going after what he wanted, even if it meant leaving his entire life behind. He nodded and believed them. 

He told himself that being homesick was a waste of energy, and anyway, he was too busy to miss anyone properly. He didn't need parents or friends or sisters when every waking thought was concentrated on chasing his dream.

Boarding school was cold in ways he hadn’t anticipated - not just the English weather, but the buildings, the food, the way people kept themselves to themselves. Not mean, just... distant. Preoccupied with lives that had existed long before he arrived on the scene.

He learned quickly how to fold himself into routines: wake early, train, school, homework, more training, sleep. Repeat.

Weekends disappeared into circuits and motorways and hotel rooms that all blurred together after a while. He didn’t make many friends - but then, he didn’t try particularly hard to. Friends could be a distraction, and he didn't have time for distractions. He wasn't lonely - not as such - but something inside him twisted when he realised his classmates got tired of being told 'no' and stopped even pretending to invite him into town or to the cinema at the weekend.

This is temporary, he told himself. This is all for something.

Tim Davis was already well established when Oscar arrived. Not looming, exactly - just present. Useful. 

Tim knew the tracks, the teams, the parents. He knew how things worked. He shook Oscar’s hand like adults do and called him mate. He asked him about his classes, told him he was doing well. Oscar was flattered by the attention, by the way Tim seemed to take him seriously straight away - like he was already someone worth investing in.

Tim started picking him up from school on Fridays and taking him to races. It was practical, everyone agreed. It saved Oscar’s parents the worry of him travelling solo; and the hassle of trying to co-ordinate travel with the other parents from the other side of the world. Tim had connections, experience. He had been doing this a long time. People trusted him.

Oscar trusted him too.

They travelled together - sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with other drivers coming and going. A perfectly oiled machine of airports, hire cars, and hotel check-ins where Tim always seemed to know the receptionist. 

They shared rooms more often than not - twin beds with sharp springs pushed close together, thin walls with generic landscape watercolours, the muted sounds of the room next door's television through plasterboard. Oscar didn't question it. Everyone knew that was how it was done. It was normal.

Tim helped with his training. With stretching. With sore shoulders after long sessions in the kart. He was good at it, too - his hands firm, confident. Like he knew exactly where to press to relieve the tension. 

Oscar was grateful. He told himself he was lucky, actually, to have someone looking out for him. Someone who noticed when he was tired, to care when he was too quiet and deep in his own mind. Someone who told him he was talented; that he would go far if he kept his head down.

He kept his head down.

Looking back, Oscar could catalogue the moments things shifted with an almost clinical precision. The way Tim’s hand lingered a second too long. The way compliments shifted, subtly, from performance to appearance. The jokes that made Oscar uncomfortable without quite knowing why. But at fourteen, those moments don’t line up into a pattern. They were just… odd. Easy enough to ignore if you didn't stare at them too hard.

Oscar was very good at not staring. He was only looking forward. He didn't even realise what was happening around him until it was too late.

Eventually, there was a point when the boundaries were pushed enough that even naive, fourteen-year-old Oscar noticed. When the discomfort sharpened into something he couldn't quite rationalise away. A hand where it shouldn’t be. A presence too close in the dark. Tim framing it as affection, as normal, as something Oscar should be grateful for. 

As something that would be misunderstood if anyone else found out. They were mates - Oscar was mature enough to know that, right? It was nobody else's business. No big deal.

He pushed the thoughts aside. Annoyed by his own ridiculousness. Ignored the stubborn, uneasy feeling that still lingered sometimes.

Then, Oscar couldn't ignore it any more.

He froze. He didn't fight. He didn't say no, not clearly. 

He told himself that if he just endured it, if he kept quiet, it would pass. That it was easier this way. That making a fuss would only complicate things. Draw unwanted attention.

He thought about sponsorships. About seats. About how fragile everything was, and how many boys were standing by ready to take his place the moment Oscar showed a hint of weakness.

He couldn't afford to be weak, not now.

Tim was careful. He wasn't violent. He didn't take it too far - not in the way that Oscar didn't think he could live with.

It was bad enough to have to live with the constant fear that one night he would. That Oscar wasn't sure what he would do if that happened. The thought of it alone made him physically sick, trembling over the cool porcelain of the en suite bathroom that he had locked himself in for just a few minutes of safety.

But sooner or later he had to come out. Back to this twisted version of reality that Oscar still didn't understand how he had let happen. He was smart. Capable. Things like this didn't happen to people like him. They just didn't.

As much as he tried to deny it, to wish it away, things didn't change.

Race after race, Tim's touch burned like a brand on Oscar's skin. He didn't leave marks - not physical ones, anyway. He was almost kind about it, in his own way. Which somehow made it worse, though Oscar wouldn't have words for that until much later. 

At fourteen, all he knew was that something very, very wrong was happening to him, and that he couldn't see a way out that didn't cost him everything he had worked for.

So he compartmentalised.

In the cold light of day, nothing changed. He raced. He studied. He smiled when he was supposed to. 

Then when the night closed in, and he felt the hotel mattress dip beside him, he closed his eyes tightly and learned how to detach from his own body in small, precise ways. He learned that you could be somewhere else in your own head if you needed to be. He learned that time moved forward, even if you felt like you were frozen in place.

Eventually, circumstances changed. Different teams. Different schedules. Different rooms. Tim faded out of his daily life without ceremony. No confrontation. No resolution. Just absence.

Oscar didn't talk about it. Not then, not ever. Not even years later, when he was an adult and supposedly held the power.

He told himself it wasn’t that bad. That other people suffered much worse and gained far less for it. That it didn’t define him. 

He built a career on discipline and control, and the ability to focus on exactly what was in front of him and nothing else. Certainly not the shadows that lurked in his rear view mirror.

It worked. He became very good at it.

So good, in fact, that for a long time, he almost believed it himself.

“We’d like to talk to you about a man named Tim Davis.”

The words hung there, suspended between them, ordinary enough on their own. 

Oscar stared at the detective, waiting for the moment when the hallway snapped back into place, when this turned into something else. A misunderstanding. The wrong flat. Someone else with the same surname.

It didn't.

He was aware, dimly, of his own body again - the way his shoulders had locked up, the faint tremor in his hands. He curled his fingers into the doorframe, grounding himself in the cool, solid edge of the wood. 

The police were watching him. He could see it in their faces, the subtle shift as they registered what he wasn't managing to hide. Not suspicion. Something closer to recognition.

Sympathy. 

Fuck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar said. His voice sounding steadier than he felt, clipped and polite in a way he had perfected over years of media training. If he kept it neutral - acted like everything was okay - maybe it wouldn't be real. Maybe they would say it was all a mistake and leave.

The detective nodded, once. “We can appreciate this is... unexpected.”

Unexpected was one word for it.

Catastrophic was another. Devastating. Career-ending.

“We’re part of an ongoing investigation,” she continued evenly, factually. Like she realised that Oscar was on the verge of an emotional breakdown and knew she had to steer him back to solid ground. “Mr Davis has been accused by multiple individuals of serious offences which have come to light as part of Operation Hydrant.”

Oscar swallowed. The name meant nothing and everything at the same time - news headlines that he muted on the television; phrases like 'institutional abuse' and 'child protection'. He latched onto the detective's procedural tone like a lifeline, focused on the way she spoke - measured and careful, as if she was walking across ice - rather than on the words themselves.

“What does this have to do with me?” he asked. There was an edge to his voice now, a flash of something sharp and defensive. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“We don’t think so,” the detective said gently, almost apologetically. “One of the reports mentioned you. Said you travelled with Mr Davis frequently when you were younger.”

The hallway felt too narrow. Oscar shifted his weight, stepping forward without quite meaning to, but effectively blocking the doorway with his body. It was instinctive - a physical refusal, even if his mouth hadn’t caught up yet. He couldn't let them inside. Couldn't have this crossing the threshold, settling into the corners of his flat like dust. It had no place in his life, not anymore.

“I was a kid,” he said, and then - annoyed with himself for even giving them that much - added, “A lot of people travel together in racing. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“No,” the detective agreed. “On its own, it doesn’t. We’re not making any assumptions. We’d just like to talk to you about your experiences. Somewhere a bit more private, if possible.”

She gestured, small and unobtrusive, towards the interior of the flat.

Oscar didn’t move.

He felt it, then - the thin, high-pitched whine of denial winding tighter in his chest. The bitter tang of fear gathered on his tongue. He swallowed it down.

This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not after so long.

It was done. Over. Buried long ago.

He’d built an entire life on top of it since then, layered it over with training schedules and race weekends and championships and press conferences until his life felt solid and immovable. You don’t just pull that out from under someone because of something that happened a decade ago.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” he said, his mouth dry. “I really don’t remember him that well.”

It was a lie. An obvious one, he realised even as he said it. The detective knew it too, Oscar suspected, but she didn’t call him on it. Instead, she studied him for a moment longer, then softened.

“We’re not here to force you into anything,” she said so gently that it felt like an attack. “This is entirely your choice. But we would like the opportunity to speak with you when you’re ready.”

Oscar laughed, once. It was short and humourless. 

“I’m not-” He stopped, because he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I’m not ready felt dangerously close to an admission.

Before he could gather himself, before he could say something he couldn’t take back, there were footsteps in the stairwell. Familiar. Unmistakable.

“Osc?”

Lando’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. 

Oscar’s head snapped up just as Lando came into view, taking in the scene in a single glance - the police, the way Oscar stood half-in the doorway like he was bracing against something. Concern flickered across his face, immediate and unguarded.

“What’s going on?” Lando asked. "What's wrong?"

Oscar’s brain lurched into motion, adrenaline surging. He reached for the first explanation that presented itself - something mundane, something survivable.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “There was- Someone tried to break into the building earlier. They’re just… following up.”

The lie hung between them - ordinary, unremarkable, but thin as paper. The police exchanged the briefest look, but they didn’t contradict him. The detective simply nodded, accepting the fiction for what it is - not giving anything away.

“Right,” she said. “We won’t take up any more of your time today.”

Her gaze flicked to Lando, and there was a brief moment of recognition there. Oscar saw it and felt a strange, detached irritation - of course she knew who he was. Of course.

She reached into her pocket and produced a card, holding it out to Oscar. He hesitated before taking it, fingers brushing the edge like it might bite.

“Call me,” she said quietly. “Anytime. If you have questions. Or if you just want to talk.”

Oscar nodded once. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

They didn't seem to expect him to. Just nodded in acknowledgement and retreated down the stairs, footsteps fading. 

Lando stepped closer without asking, concern plain but held back.

“Come on,” Oscar muttered, turning inside, ignoring the question still hanging in Lando’s eyes.

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound too loud in the sudden silence.

For a second, Oscar just stood there.

Then his legs started to shake.

Lando was there immediately, his hands warm and steady on Oscar’s arms, guiding him further into the flat.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Hey. You okay? You're shaking.”

Oscar nodded automatically, even as his body betrayed him. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He exhaled, a shaky sound. “Just… weird morning.”

"What was that all about?" Lando nodded towards the front door. His hands rubbed slow, reassuring circles up and down Oscar’s arms.

"Just a break-in. Downstairs." Oscar said, his heart jumping uncomfortably in his chest. He forced a laugh, brittle and sour. "I don't know why I'm so freaked out."

Lando squeezed his arms gently. "Someone broke into your building, Osc. I think it's normal to be freaked out. Especially given what we do; who we are."

"They definitely recognised you," Oscar said. He brought his hands up to rest against Lando's chest, allowed the pulse of the steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips to anchor him in the now. "They probably think it's weird for my teammate to be here this late. They might wonder."

"Let them," he responded, unconcerned. "It's the police, Osc. I doubt they'll be gossiping to the press."

"Mmm," Oscar just hummed distractedly, his eyes focused on the strings at the neck of Lando's hoodie, toying with one between his fingers. 

Lando's hands dropped to his waist, warm and reassuringly solid. Oscar focused on the weight of them. He willed the love in this moment to banish the past, the shock, the fear - the confusing swirl of emotion that hearing the name Tim Davis aloud for the first time in years had sparked inside him. He was fine... He should be fine. He'd moved on from all of this years ago.

Lando studied him, eyes searching, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Oscar’s mouth, brief and grounding, then rested their foreheads together. 

“You sure you're okay?” Lando asked quietly.

Oscar swallowed, forced a small smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. "All good."

It was another lie.