Chapter Text
Lando got out of the car with his hands trembling beneath his gloves, smiling at his team, who were already waiting for him with applause and cheers of encouragement. His legs still felt like jelly from the adrenaline as he ran towards the group, jumping straight into their hugs and celebratory pats. Every shout of support sounded muffled against his helmet, his tight grin beneath it making his cheeks ache, but he didn’t care. He’d won, and that was all his mind could process — not the pain, not the sweat, not even the exhaustion. Just him and his victory.
He’d won. He’d won another race, proved his worth, done it all despite the hate from the fans who had booed him all weekend. He’d won and dominated the race with more than thirty seconds of difference. He’d won and shut all those haters up.
Once he finished celebrating with his team, Lando headed towards the weigh-in area, greeting the other drivers who passed by, receiving more congratulations and positive comments from his colleagues. The smile on his face was starting to hurt from how wide it was.
He left the weigh-in area and finally managed to take off his helmet, gloves, and everything that had been bothering him up to that moment. He shook his sweat-damp hair and unzipped his racing suit down to his waist, taking long sips of the water left for him beside the number one stand. He smiled against the bottle as he looked again at the number showing his position.
His hands were slowly returning to normal, as were his legs, no longer trembling like before. The adrenaline was dropping enough for him to start feeling tired, but he didn’t relax completely, knowing he still had to deal with the media.
And, speaking of the devil, Lando spotted his fellow podium finishers already chatting with the man who would be interviewing them after the race. Taking his watch, which one of his team members was handing him, he approached the drivers who had finished second and third in today’s race.
He arrived and greeted everyone, smiling at the camera, filming him, adjusting his cap unconsciously as the reporter began to speak.
He answered the questions calmly, leaving the bottle at his feet, resting his hands on his hips as laughter began to bubble up from his chest, escaping in breathy chuckles.
The boos made the atmosphere around them tremble; the reporter in front of him smiled hungrily for more, staying silent on purpose so Lando could focus on the furious chants from the fans shouting at him.
Lando didn’t flinch, laughing instead as he talked about the race and his performance. He glanced sideways at Max and Charles, who were looking towards the stands with expressions of surprise and understanding — they both knew what it felt like to be booed. It was still overwhelming, even when it wasn’t directed at them.
Soon, the reporter grew bored of him and turned to the second-place finisher, Charles, who immediately smiled professionally at the camera, handling the questions with elegance and experience.
Lando stayed standing, drinking what was left of his water while looking at the stands. When the cameras stopped showing him, the boos ceased, replaced by cheers and roars of joy for Charles, who kept talking enthusiastically about his own race.
He didn’t care. It had happened to him in Italy, and it would probably happen again in Brazil. It didn’t affect Lando anymore, not like in previous years when the hate was so overwhelming it felt like drowning in a hole with no way out. Now the hate bounced off him like a spring; the weight on his chest was no longer caused by meaningless online comments.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice when the reporter finished with Charles and moved on to Max, leaving the Ferrari driver free beside him, who was now trying to start a small conversation while they waited for the Dutchman so they could go to the podium.
“So, an incredible race, I could barely see you in the final laps,” the Monegasque began, playfully nudging the younger one, who smiled brightly, snapping out of his thoughts to give his full attention to his teammate.
“Yeah… it was a good race, I felt good the whole time. The first corner was intense, I could see the chaos happening between everyone,” Lando replied, scratching the back of his neck with a faint smile, the excitement slowly fading.
The boos still echoed loudly, but both drivers ignored them, choosing instead to focus on their conversation.
“Yeah, for a moment, everyone was on the grass, I thought I was going to go off too, but I managed to stay on track. Still, keeping up with your pace was absolute madness – you were unbelievably fast the whole time. What you did today was honestly incredible,” Charles added, smiling with genuine pride and admiration as he patted the Briton’s shoulders.
Lando felt his cheeks heat up, opening his mouth to thank his colleague and friend when suddenly, time stopped for him.
A bang rang out, drowning out the rest of the noise around them. The shouts of hate and celebration turned into screams of fear and confusion. Panic spread like wildfire through the stands.
Lando didn’t understand until the bottle, now empty, slipped from his hands — only then did he notice the burning pain and the wetness spreading across his abdomen. Looking down, he saw a red stain, as bright as Charles’s Ferrari. Completely in shock and unsure how to react, Lando lifted his gaze from the stain — from what he now recognised as blood — towards his companions.
Max, Charles, even the reporter and cameraman were staring at him, terror shining in their eyes, faces pale and mouths open, shouting words that couldn’t quite reach him. His ears felt stuffed with cotton, and Lando gave in to the need to fall, quickly caught by—
“Lando!” Charles shouted first, rushing to his side, fear reflected in his green eyes. He grabbed the younger man by the shoulder blades to slow his fall, helping him down gently and carefully.
Everything around them was utter chaos, but Lando couldn’t think beyond the burning in his gut, the hot blood seeping through his fireproof suit, the crimson shining against all the white of his clothes
“Shit, shit… what the fuck is happening?” a voice yelled in panic and anger — it sounded like Max’s, though Lando wasn’t sure, his brain still struggling to process what had just happened.
A bang, just like the ones he’d only heard in horror films. Panic everywhere. People were screaming in his direction. The horrified looks of those beside him. Calls for medics. The blood on his stomach — because that’s what it was, blood. Lando finally understood.
Someone, somehow, had shot him. Someone in the crowd had come armed to the event and decided to shoot. There was an armed person among all those innocent people.
Lando felt something hot rise in his throat, forcing a cough. Charles supported him against his lap, straightening his back while shouting for help. The reporter dropped the microphone and ran, followed by the cameraman (who, like his colleague, left the camera behind) to get help. Max, who had been standing frozen watching both drivers on the ground, finally moved, dropping to his knees beside the Briton.
He felt sleepy and exhausted, wanting to close his eyes, but the burning in his stomach was too strong. He let out a groan as Charles shifted behind him.
“I-I’m sorry, Lando, help’s coming. M-Max, press the wound” the Monegasque gasped through sobs, holding Lando’s semi-conscious face in his hands as the younger man fought to keep his eyes open.
Max did as the other said, crawling closer until he was level with Lando’s abdomen, muttering a shaky response before pressing firmly on the wound.
It was then, with the Dutchman’s hands on his stomach, that Lando finally managed to make a sound — a loud scream that made both drivers beside him flinch.
“Shhh, easy… I know it h-hurts, but help’s on the way, hold on… please, just hold on,” Max pleaded, almost begging, keeping pressure on the wound, feeling Lando’s blood warm and sticky between his fingers — and it sent chills through him.
Security arrived and positioned themselves between the drivers on the ground and the stands, forming a small, improvised shield that offered some cover.
Members from all three teams were running towards them, their faces filled with panic and worry.
Max and Charles stayed still, except for the trembling of their hands and the shaky breaths that came between sobs and gasps.
Lando kept crying out, his voice raw with pain and agony, his strength draining with every scream, his vision blurring, and his hearing fading into muffled silence.
Max was the first to notice the drop in Lando’s energy, watching in horror as the Briton’s struggle to push his hands away from his stomach slowly stopped.
“No, no, no, no, Lando, stay with us! Open your eyes, you fucking idiot, you’ve still got a trophy to collect!” the Dutchman shouted, his voice high and broken, his eyes burning as hot tears ran down his cheeks.
Charles, having also noticed the way the younger man’s body went limp, panicked. He shouted for help, looking around desperately for someone from the medical team.
Lando coughed again, blood spilling from his mouth down to his chin. Charles, who was cradling the younger man’s face in his hands, let out a sob, wiping the blood from his mouth.
“Lando, please… hold on, mate, hold on, hurry up! He’s dying, Lando’s dying, for fuck’s sake!” Charles shouted in desperation. Max kept pressing down on the younger man’s stomach, even though his arms were cramping.
Neither of them could take it anymore – seeing their friend like that, motionless, silent, and pale as a ghost, losing blood and gravely injured.
Both were screaming for help – to hell with public image. They didn’t care if their shouts echoed across the entire place; their friend was dying right in front of them, and they couldn’t do anything but watch it happen.
Lando, who had gone from screaming to letting out weak whimpers, looked up. Charles’s face blocked the sun, and the Monegasque’s tears fell onto his forehead like tiny drops of heat.
“Charl…” he couldn’t finish. The coughing came back with force, making him spit more blood onto his already stained suit. He hissed in pain when the movement made Max press harder against his stomach.
“Shh, don’t talk, just keep your eyes open, yeah?” Charles murmured, his voice hoarse from shouting so much.
Just as Lando was about to close his eyes, and both Max and Charles felt the crushing weight of losing their friend, the paramedics finally arrived. They ran like never before towards the trio on the ground, stretcher ready for the Briton.
Both Ferrari and Red Bull stepped aside, letting the professionals do their job. Quickly, they lifted Lando onto the stretcher and ran with the same urgency towards where the ambulance was probably waiting, ready to head to the hospital.
A pair of bodyguards then arrived, grabbing the two drivers who were still frozen in place, trembling from head to toe, quietly sobbing. By the arm, they were gently dragged — though they didn’t resist — too shocked to move on their own, towards a secured area where their managers and a few other drivers were waiting, all with horrified, deeply worried faces.
Max and Charles were immediately surrounded by their teammates, questions flying from all directions — every single one of them mentioning the missing driver’s name.
Max stared at his trembling hands, still stained with blood — Lando’s blood. When he finally looked up, the others saw his red, tear-streaked eyes.
“They took him away. We don’t know how he is. I… I had him in my hands, I tried to stop the bleeding, but it wouldn’t stop, it just… it just wouldn’t stop, fuck,” Max cried out, wanting to run his hands through his hair and pull at it, but unable to move his arms.
Charles wasn’t any better, crying in the arms of Lewis and Pierre, who were trying, unsuccessfully, to comfort the Monegasque.
“He looked me in the eyes… b-before they took him away. He looked at me, Pierre. What if that was him saying goodbye …” Charles started between sobs.
Max lifted his head then.
“Shut the fuck up, he was not," Max growled, glaring at Charles with restrained fury, making the other man sob again.
“Let’s keep a positive mindset, yeah? Lando’s going to be fine, and this will all just be a horrible experience we’ll put behind us,” Lewis said firmly, though his voice betrayed his worry and fear for the other British driver.
Max let out a mocking huff as he took the towel that someone — he didn’t know who, and didn’t care enough to find out — handed him, furiously wiping the blood from his hands, still feeling its warmth on his palms. He wanted to throw up.
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t have to hold your friend’s shot-up stomach while he bled out, did you? Did you hear him? How he screamed? Fuck, I’ll never get that sound out of my head, I… shit” Max muttered, his voice getting lower with each word, until a pair of steady hands gripped his shoulders. When he looked up, he saw Charles, who had stepped away from Lewis and Pierre, staring at him with glistening green eyes.
“Lewis is right, Lando is going to be okay. You did what you could, you helped him; we helped him. It's awful, but now we can only wait for news, good news, because Lando is stubborn, he's a fighter, sorry for saying he was saying goodbye,” the Monegasque said, crying silently as the words struggled to leave his mouth, pulling the blond into a hug.
Max finally allowed himself to let go, realising only now that he’d been holding everything in. As soon as Charles’s hands touched him, the dam broke — sobs shook his body as he clung to the Ferrari driver, his oldest rival, his colleague, his friend. With his hands still red with blood, he held on tightly to Charles, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder, while Charles did the same against him.
The others let them cry, knowing both of them needed it more than anyone else there.
They cried together, holding on, clinging to hope and to the warmth the other gave — for themselves and for their friend.