.../- -/.-/.-../.-..

But it's not food poisoning. The effects are different. He feels feverish, body wracked with shivers despite the heat that pours off of him in waves. Everything hurts, the ache right down to his bones, skin feeling bruised to the touch.

Artturi takes his temperature, eyebrows flying up his forehead when he marks it down. A fever, definitely, but the doctor they call in can't seem to come up with a valid reason. Just a bug, he says, shrugging like that's that, and Oscar tries hard not to let the wave of nausea overtake him.

It's a race weekend. There's no chance of him not getting into that car.

Even if the car is shit; even if the season's going about as badly as it could; even if he's already dreading the track, the way Spa loses all it's charm when the new regulations are taken into consideration.

He's still going to be racing.

————

Weirdly, he feels better by the time he's gotten onto the jet.

Mark is sleeping somewhere in the back, but Oscar has Lando next to him and George sat across from him, and it's the best he's felt all week.

It's been days of waiting for whatever this is to pass; had to practically crawl out of bed and let Mark drag him to the airfield today, shooting Oscar worried glances the whole time. Oscar knows it's bad when even Mark is dropping hints that nobody will blame Oscar if he has to take the weekend off.

He looks like death. He feels like it too.

But his temperature cools beneath the chill of the air conditioning in the jet; he even has the energy to play a few rounds of cards with Lando and George before he settles in for a much needed nap, letting their low chatter wash over him as he sinks into sleep.

By the time they land, he feels like he might be over the worst of it. It's the best sleep he's had in days at least, and he wakes with a renewed vigor — hopeful for the weekend, instead of dreading it.

————

It doesn't pass.

If anything, he worries that it's worse as he lays in the hotel bed shivering that night, the air conditioning turned all the way down and the spare blanket from the wardrobe piled on top of his body. He's sweating like a faucet, sweat pooling into all of his nooks and crevices; the slick slide at the back of his knees and the crooks of his elbows.

All day at the track, he'd been able to manage it. Well enough that nobody noticed — no-one except Mark and Lando and George, but they had already known anyway, and they'd all been treating Oscar appropriately tenderly. It made his stomach flip, his efforts to brush their concerns away falling upon deaf ears.

In all the years he's known Lando, he can't remember Lando ever bringing him a hot chocolate without prompting. Today, he'd brought Oscar three.

Even George had cornered him at one point, eyes solemn and hand clapping down onto Oscar's shoulder. Oscar had felt the heat radiating from George's open palm, bleeding through the fabric of his shirt and warming him up more than any hot chocolate could.

"You look better than this morning," George had said softly, offering Oscar a smile that had shot warmth into his heart, embarrassingly.

And he had. Oscar had looked and felt better.

And now he's curled up into a ball in bed, head splitting down the middle with the pain, teeth grinding together as he tries to find some semblance of comfort. It hurts, every one of his limbs feeling heavy and marked all over.

Christ, is he dying?

The knock at his door sounds distant, almost hazy. Like he's hearing it from underwater. He blinks through vision swimming with tears, suddenly angry at it all — the way he feels, the way he's reacting to it.

Oscar's always known the world to be unfair, but this feels particularly damning.

The knock comes again, incessant now, and he groans as he half-rolls out of the bed, keeping the blanket wrapped around him as he hobbles over the door.

It's Lando on the other side, because of course it is.

His eyes widen when he sees the state Oscar is in, immediately crowding him back into the room, closing the door behind them.

"Shit, Osc," Lando's voice is hushed. He's already pushing Oscar back towards the bed, and Oscar's too exhausted to fight it, though he thinks he should, maybe. Doesn't want to know how weak he looks right now. "You don't look good."

"Thanks," Oscar manages. It comes out thick, the way he sounds after he's cried, and he huffs a frustrated breath. "Just what I wanted to hear."

Lando grimaces. "No, I mean — shit, should we call someone?"

"No," Oscar glares at him.

He doesn't want to be prodded by Artturi or another doctor right now; worse, Mark. He doesn't want to be told he can't race this weekend.

"Fine," there's a muscle in Lando's jaw that throbs when he swallows, a blade of steel. "I'll just have to stay here tonight then."

"What?" Oscar sighs, shaking his head. It feels hazy again, like it's filled with cotton. But he doesn't feel as hot as he did before; his body has stopped trembling quite as violently. He just feels tired. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not," Lando insists. He's already pulling off his jeans, like he's intending to get into bed with Oscar, and Oscar —

Feels his eyes drooping, any last remnants of a fight leaving him instantly.

"Whatever," he says through a yawn that cracks his jaw. "Just keep to your side of the bed."

The last thing he hears is Lando snorting before he falls back against the mattress and finally — finally — finds some peace.

——————

"George says you're not feeling too good," Alex says conversationally, slipping into the chair opposite Oscar and waggling his brows. "Not contagious are you?"

Oscar blinks at him blearily. He'd managed to get a good few hours sleep the night before but the exhaustion is still bone deep; he's struggling to stay alert now, more than a little nervous about the concept of getting into the car tomorrow.

"I don't know," he finds his tongue, heavy in his mouth. "Could be."

Alex grins at him. "Good. Do me a favour, get me out of driving the Williams Sunday, yeah?"

It startles a laugh out of Oscar, his shoulders relaxing as the tension he hadn't realised he was holding there dissipates in an instant. He still feels tired and his head still hurts and everything feels a little more difficult than it should; but Alex's presence helps, it seems. There's something about him that sets Oscar at ease.

It shouldn't, really. If anyone ever has a trick up their sleeve, it's Alex.

But even Alex wouldn't kick Oscar while he was down, would he?

"Nah, you have to be on the track," Oscar drawls easily, smiling wider than he has in days. "Who else am I going to crash into?"

When Alex laughs, it's full-bodied. Head thrown back, teeth on show. Oscar feels a swell of pride at being able to get that reaction, cheeks heating in a way that has nothing to do with a fever.

——————

It takes Oscar the entire day to realise the connection; the dips and troughs of the mystery illness. How it peaks and gets worse at times; when it feels better.

It's a crazy thought, but he can't seem to shake it. Not when he's looked at the data presented over the last few days, his mind recognising the patterns even if it can't make sense of them.

The jet; the hotel room; breakfast.

He always felt noticeably better when Lando or George or Alex were around. Not with anyone else.

He puts his theory to the test when he spots Lando, George and Alex eating lunch together at the track. Tells Mark he's headed back to the hotel with Artturi. It's almost instant, the sense of anxiety that rises, increasing with each passing moment as the car travels further and further from the track.

By the time they're at the hotel, Oscar can barely stand.

"Lando," he gasps, the ringing in his head hitting a decibel previously unknown to him. "Call Lando. Tell him to bring George and Alex."

Artturi, he thinks after, deserves a pay raise, for the way he immediately does as Oscar says without question.

—————-

"So, let me get this straight," George is still pacing around Oscar's hotel room; has been since he arrived, flanked by Lando and Alex and looking like some sort of avenging angel. "You think that this — illness or whatever, and us—" he pauses, gesturing between the three of them. "Are connected, somehow?"

Oscar sighs. "Yes," he says, dully.

It's remarkable, really, how well he feels with all three of them in the room. Better than he had before he was struck down with this thing, if that's even possible. It feels like a weight has been lifted, every one of his muscles melting into honeyed bliss; head clear in a way it hasn't been for days now.

"Wait, I've heard of this," Alex says, interrupting whatever George was going to say. He's frowning as he thinks, nodding quietly to himself. "No, listen — remember last year? Charles and Max?"

"Oh shit," Lando says faintly.

George nods grimly. "I think you're right."

Frowning, Oscar glares at them. "What? What about Charles and Max?"

Alex shares a look with George, but Lando's the one that comes out with it, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Oscar can't tell if he's excited or nervous or both.

"You've been cursed!"

Oscar feels his mouth drop open, jamming it shut quickly as he tries to process what Lando just said.

"He's right," George sighs. "We've seen this before."

"But — why?"

It makes no sense to Oscar. He could see, logically, why someone might curse him to require the company of Lando — but George and Alex? He wracks his brain like he might come up with a valid reason for the madness.

"Probably someone just playing a prank," Alex says, and then hurries to add: "I promise it wasn't me."

Oscar sighs.

"How did Max and Charles break it?"

None of them will look at him, suddenly. Lando's sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, the way he does when he's trying not to say something bad or stupid; George is staring at his own feet like they've suddenly sprouted wings; and Alex is — well, actually, Alex is grinning.

Oscar feels his heart sink.

"Just tell me."

"Sex," Alex answers, sounding far too gleeful.

Frowning, Oscar mulls it over. It's not so bad, he supposes. He and Lily broke up months ago, but — there're apps. He's not one for casual sex usually, but he can bend his own rules for this —

"Not like that," Lando mumbles, like he's read Oscar's mind. He's looking at Oscar almost apologetically when Oscar looks up. "Like. With — the ones involved in the curse."

"Us," George sighs dramatically. "He means with us."

Oscar blinks, looking at them each in turn for a few agonising moments. The silence stretches, extending beyond the farthest corners of the room.