#chasing silence

Lando Norris had dreams. 

Now, of course, that seemed normal. Everybody had dreams. But these weren’t dreams of the future, or achievements. They weren’t even dreams of fairytales or nightmares. 

They were dreams that never ended. Dreams that brought him to a different place. Dreams that were so… real. 

It had started months ago. Slowly but surely, each night he’d fall asleep like any other. Sleep had become an oasis. The only place where he could escape long enough for his mind to forget all about the championship fight. 

That was, until the dreams started. 

Slowly, he would wake from whatever dream he’d been having before, but he wasn’t actually awake. At first, he thought it was sleep paralysis. Something Jon had offhandedly mentioned once during his pre-race ritual of receiving a massage. 

Everything had seemed normal at first. He could move, hear himself breathing, and he could even hear the sounds of cars moving outside his hotel room if he listened hard enough. That was what told him it wasn’t sleep paralysis. 

Since he hadn’t realized he was still asleep, he got out of bed and decided to head towards the bathroom, figuring it was just his body waking him up before he pissed himself. 

On his way, he caught a glimpse of his alarm clock. 

3:00 AM 

Well, that’s creepy. 

He made his way over towards the hotel room’s extravagant bathroom, being blinded by the light once he flipped the switch on. The room was far too big for just one person. A fact that his brain reminded him of when he was sitting alone in his room after a miserable race, his best friend Max blowing up his phone in an attempt to pull him from the depths of his head before he got lost in it. 

He glanced at himself in the mirror, taking in the dark circles that sat under his eyes. The race had been long and terrible this weekend. They just simply didn’t have the pace to compete with Max’s redbull. Or, well, more specifically, he didn’t. Oscar had done fine. He… had not. 

He zoned out for a few moments, his mind going through the events of the day, making him relive every miserable moment that had occurred. 

He could have stayed there for hours. Probably would have if it hadn’t been for the lights flickering and suddenly a door appearing behind him. 

It was a simple wooden door, painted white with a silver doorknob. 

He stared at it in shock. 

What the fuck!? He screamed internally, terrified to voice his thoughts out loud. You’re losing it, Lando. You’re fucking losing it. 

He rubbed at his eyes roughly, praying that it was just a trick due to his lack of sleep. It wasn’t.  

With a pounding heart and shaking breaths, he slowly turned around, forcing himself to actually face the door instead of just staring at it through the mirror. 

The door stood there ominously, standing out aggressively against the black marble walls. 

Against his better judgment, Lando stepped forward, towards it. He couldn’t explain it, he just felt a certain… pull. 

He made it as far as standing directly in front of the door before he snapped out of it. 

What the fuck was he doing!? Why was he walking towards it!? He should call someone!  

But who would he call? 

Jon? No, the guy would think he’d finally lost it due to all of the pressure. Maybe, he had. 

Max? No chance. They may tell each other everything. Or nearly everything. But he knew for a fact the other boy would only worry and insist on flying out to spend his week off with him. Cooped up in Lando’s Monaco apartment, just so he could keep an eye on him. 

So who did that leave? 

Oscar? 

Lando seriously considered it. The Aussie was known for being level-headed. He’d probably know what to do if a random door had suddenly shown up in his hotel room’s bathroom. 

But what if he told Zak or Andrea? What if Lando really was losing it, and Oscar told someone and got him kicked off the team? He couldn’t risk it. Not when the championship battle was so tight, and he stood to lose everything. Not when it meant possibly proving every asshole journalist or dickhead online who’d written about him or talked about his crumbling mentality, right. 

So, Lando didn’t say anything. No, instead, he foolishly reached forwards, unable to stop his impulsive tendencies when his brain lacked so much critical sleep. 

His fingers grazed the doorknob. The metal was cool to the touch, sending a shiver down his spine. 

Without a second thought, he twisted it, pushing forward slightly and watching as the door swung open. 

A startled breath left his lips as the scene in front of him was revealed. 

A room with dim lighting and nondescript walls stared back at him. It went on for seemingly forever. Twisting corners being revealed, promising to lead him further if he dared to follow them. 

The noise was what tempted him the most. 

Silence. 

It was like the moment he had opened the door, his brain had shut off. The constant buzzing or stream of unwanted voices whispering nasty things into his ears disappeared. 

That was what drove him to step through the door. 

The promise of even a moment of quietness, too good to pass up. 

With a deep breath and a final glance around the room, Lando made that last step, crossing the threshold between the two worlds. 

The immediate silence swallowed him whole. Filling him with a sort of peace he hadn't realized he was missing. 

He blinked a few times, trying to force his eyes to acclimate to the new lighting. Once they had, he turned around, watching as the bright lights of his hotel bathroom stared back at him from the other side of the door, almost glowing. 

He wondered for the first time since he had opened the door if maybe he had made a mistake. If he should turn back now, before he went too far and risked getting lost. 

But he couldn’t seem to make himself do so. It was like his feet had been glued to the floor, and refused to go anywhere near the door he’d come through. 

He slowly turned back around, dragging his eyes across all of the walls surrounding him, taking in every detail. 

He glanced down towards the watch on his wrist. 3:20 AM. 

He had time. 

With that thought, he began to walk further into the room, following the clear path as he passed different pillars and random walls that split the hallways off into empty rooms. 

He noticed writing on the wall as he made his way further. 

Don’t get lost. 

Remember the way back. 

It’s watching. 

He felt a shiver run through his entire body. A wave of unease overcame him, but he couldn’t seem to force his body to turn around, to return back to the door which was now nowhere in sight. 

The further he walked, the more he became aware of the arrows painted onto the walls, guiding him in the right direction. 

After what felt like years, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, he ended up at a dead end. 

The wall in front of him was completely blank, aside from the tunnel that sat in the middle. 

He moved closer, and the words written next to it became clear. 

Enter slide. 

Before he could decide what to do, a shadow moved to his left, making him spin around quickly, trying to get a look at what had just moved. 

Whatever it was had disappeared, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that settled over him. Suddenly, something else moved towards his right. Too fast for him to see, but that didn’t matter. An ear-piercing siren went off from somewhere above his head, sending waves of pain crashing through him. 

Without a second thought, he ran. 

He ran without stopping. 

Blindly following his instincts and hoping that he'd end up back where he’d first entered. 

He ran for forever. 

Until his legs felt shot. 

Until he could no longer pull air into his lungs. 

But finally, the door came into view. 

He didn’t slow down until he went sailing through it, slamming the door shut behind him. 

He fell to the floor with his back against the door. His heart pounding inside of his chest, and his breathing filled the entire room.

Suddenly, the door began to shake. 

The wood splintered, and hands reached through it, black as ink. 

A scream ripped from his lips as they grabbed him, and he was pulled back through it. 

“HELP–” 

Lando shot upwards, the word dying on his lips as his heart attempted to beat out of his chest. 

He blinked aggressively, looking around in shock. 

It had all been a… dream? 

He looked over towards the clock. 

6:00 AM blinked back at him, before the alarm on his phone began to blare. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, blindly reaching over towards the nightstand in an attempt to silence the torturous noise. 

Once the insistent ringing had stopped, he took a moment just to breathe. 

It had all been a dream. 

If you were to ask anyone else, they would tell you Lando was chill. That he was easy-going, excitable. Maybe, they would even tell you that he was the favorite for the championship, although it certainly didn’t seem like it. 

Canada was rough. 

Lando hadn’t meant to hit Oscar. He hadn’t. He’d just been trying to pass him, desperate to gain more points in the championship. Desperate to lessen the point gap between them. 

10 points it had been before the race. Now, with his first DNF of the season, Lando sat a depressing 22 points behind Oscar. 

It hurt. It truly did. 

He tried to be a good sport. Tried not to let his frustration show through. 

The first thing he did once Oscar was out of the car was apologize to him. He found him in the media pen, aware of the cameras pointed directly at them, eager to catch their every word. 

“Sorry… All my bad. All my fault.” 

His words rang through his head until they became meaningless. 

Oscar had been polite, like always. He’d accepted Lando’s apology with a kind of decorum Lando wished he possessed. They’d done a quick handshake, showing off for the cameras that they were going to be ok. 

Oscar’s thumb had brushed against the back of Lando’s hand, the tingling feeling it left behind lasting for several minutes afterwards. 

He didn’t think much of it. Couldn’t. The feeling of pressure building behind his eyes was overwhelming, and all Lando wanted to do was sleep. He needed it. The feeling of escape the darkness brought, called out to him, like a siren from the sea. 

But he couldn’t. He had media obligations. Hungry reporters stared down at him, their microphones being shoved into his face, and their smiles twisted with something malicious, ready to turn his words into something ugly the minute he spoke. 

His brain went on autopilot, allowing his press officer to lead him around. He couldn’t feel his legs, which had gone numb like the rest of him. 

All he could think about was how fucking stupid he was. How desperate. If he’d just paid more attention, just given it a second more of thought, this whole thing could have been avoided. 

The darkness of sleep called out to him, and he was helpless to resist it. The moment his press officer told him his duties were fulfilled, he was gone. He quickly made his way back towards his driver’s room, ignoring those around him whose pitying eyes could be felt boring into his back. 

Jon was inside waiting for him. He’d set out a fresh change of clothes and had Lando’s bag packed and ready to go once he got changed. 

Lando walked in, and their eyes met. He shook his head quickly, not ready to talk. Jon took it in stride. He made himself busy with readying the rest of Lando’s stuff while Lando quickly stripped and changed. 

Something vicious was crawling up the back of his throat, and he kept having to swallow to keep it down. His breathing had gotten shaky, and he couldn’t figure out how to steady it. 

The desire for sleep was so strong he felt like he could barely move. 

I’ve just got to make it back to the hotel, he thought, trying to psych himself up. And then I can go to sleep. 

He finished changing and glanced over his shoulder at Jon, who was already staring at him. 

“If you want to talk,” he began. “I’ll listen.” 

Lando quickly shook his head, the words threatening to climb out of his throat if he was stupid enough to open his mouth. 

Jon nodded silently, though he had a worried expression on his face. Lando knew they would need to talk. Jon could clearly tell something was up, and he wouldn’t allow Lando to let it fester for long. 

They had learned from the 2024 season that things would get bad when they let it. 

McLaren had put plenty of measures in place. Brought in sports psychologists who followed them to every race, provided them with more paddock passes to give out to family and friends, and they’d even lowered the amount of required media, knowing how much the two drivers hated it. 

Lando had taken some precautions as well. He’d known going into this season that he was one of the favorites. He had started off with a bang, only for everything to go downhill so fast. 

His friends and family had become a lifeline. He brought someone to nearly every race, and Max was on the phone with him most nights. 

He thought it would help, and it had, until the dreams began. 

“…Lando?” Jon’s voice broke through his thoughts, snapping Lando’s attention back towards him. 

“Hm?” Lando hummed in question, blinking the fuzziness from his eyes. 

“I asked if you were ready to go,” Jon said, clearly repeating himself. He hesitated; worry was obvious in his voice, and he seemed like he wanted to ask something. 

“Oh,” Lando replied dumbly, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah.” Then, with a little more force, “Yeah, I’m ready.” 

Jon stared at him for a moment, searching for something in Lando’s face. He either didn’t find what he was looking for or was too tired to start a fight because he let it go, headed towards the door, and motioned for Lando to follow, snagging his backpack on the way out. 

Lando followed quickly, but paused once he exited the room, coming face to face with Oscar’s door, the ‘Oscar Piastri’ sticker staring back at him menacingly. 

“Lando…?” Jon questioned quietly, looking back at him with a confused expression. 

“Y-you,” Lando paused to clear his throat. “You go ahead, I’ve got something I need to do.” His eyes went back towards Oscar’s driver’s room door, and Jon must have gotten the memo, because he let out a quiet breath and a mumbled ‘don’t be too long’ before he was walking away, bringing Lando’s backpack with him. 

Lando stood there dumbly for a few moments, trying to work up the now lost courage to knock on Oscar’s door. 

Fortunately, or rather unfortunately– depending on how you look at it– the door opened for him, and Oscar walked out of it, having to come to a swift halt before he collided into Lando. 

“Whoa,” Oscar stuttered out, placing a hand on the door frame to steady himself. “You alright, mate?” 

Lando just stared at him, trying to summon his earlier courage, which had dissipated the moment Oscar opened the door. 

“Lando…?” 

“Y-yeah,” he stammered in reply. “C-can I talk to you?” 

Oscar raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and looked down the hall, maybe trying to see if there were any hidden cameras around, positioned perfectly so they could catch this moment and post it on Instagram. 

When he didn’t find one, because Lando was almost one-hundred percent sure they weren’t being filmed– you could never really be sure– he slowly moved backwards, inviting Lando into his driver's room. 

Their rooms were nearly identical, yet still Lando felt the need to examine every corner of it like he would be tested on the placement of Oscar’s hoodies later. 

“So…” Oscar said awkwardly. He was watching Lando with that unreadable expression of his, and it was making Lando squirm uncomfortably. 

“I-I wanted to apologize." 

Oscar looked at him weirdly, although it could have been just because he was tired, and Lando was delaying when he could go back to the hotel. 

“You already did,” Oscar replied. “Earlier, in the media pens,” Oscar said it in a way that almost felt like he thought he needed to remind Lando. Like he thought Lando had already forgotten. 

“I know,” Lando stressed, his voice rising on the last syllable. “I–” he took a calming breath, that feeling of something crawling up the back of his throat appearing again. “I just wanted to do it somewhere without cameras.” Then, he quietly added. “So you know I mean it.” 

 Oscar watched him as the room fell silent. His expression was too blank for Lando to read, but in his experience, that never meant something good. Then, Oscar let out a quiet sigh, which might as well have been a punch to Lando’s gut with the way it landed. 

“Lando,” Oscar began exasperatedly. “Look, you’ve already apologized, and it’s late. All I want right now is to go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Can we just… put a hold on this conversation until the team debriefs back in Woking?” He paused, seeming to be debating with himself about whether or not he should say what he was thinking. “It’s… I know I managed to make it out alright, but…” his voice lowered, and Lando could feel the background of the room begin to fade away. “I could have had a podium, and you fucked that.” 

Oscar hadn’t meant for the words to hurt the way they did. He couldn’t have known they’d make Lando feel like he’d swallowed a mouthful of glass, or like he’d drunk acid. He hadn’t even said it in a rude tone. Just in a way that expressed his… disappointment. His frustration. 

“Ok…?” Oscar asked, looking at Lando’s face. Something must have shown, because his expression immediately softened, and he reached a tentative hand forward, as if he was worried Lando needed to be steadied. “Lando?” 

Lando quickly wiped whatever look was on his face off and gave Oscar his perfectly curated smile. The one he always gave to the media when they said something that stung a little too hard. 

He nodded quickly, stumbling backwards and rattling off words in that nervous way of his that he did when he wanted someone to forget whatever he had just said. It was the only way to keep the vomit that was climbing up his throat from escaping. 

“Y-yeah, ‘course,” he stumbled on the words, rushing them out so fast they slid together in a way he knew Oscar had to strain his ears to decipher. “I-I’ll j-just get out of your way.” 

And he was off before Oscar could say another word. 

Lando practically ran down the hospitality hallways, eager to escape and feel the pressure of clean air wrap around him. 

He burst through the hospitality doors, stumbling down the stairs and into the main pathways of the paddock, which had now emptied as most of the visitors and photographers had gone home. 

He rushed towards the gates, pretending to ignore Charles’ call of greeting when he had passed him. He didn’t want the Monogasque to see the panic that was so clearly written across his face. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He berated himself the entire walk towards the car that was waiting to take him back to the hotel. How could he be so stupid!? 

He opened the door once he saw the car, and crawled into the backseat, ignoring Jon’s questioning gaze, and curling into himself, hiding his face as his eyes filled with tears and the panic tore at his chest. 

I just want to sleep, he thought miserably. I just want some peace. 

***

Lando rushed into his hotel room like he was being chased. He slammed the door behind him, cutting off whatever Jon had been about to say, and fell to the floor, his panic attack now in full-blown effect. 

It was a painful twenty minutes, his chest feeling like a weight had been placed upon it, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t seem to be able to remove it. 

He waited until his breathing evened, and he could suck in greedy mouthfuls of air before he attempted to stand. His vision swam slightly, but he steadied himself using the wall. 

His body felt drained, and everything hurt. He stumbled towards his bed, not even bothering to shower or brush his teeth. The need for an escape, a reprieve from the pain, was too great. 

He kicked off his shoes and jeans, ripping the McLaren polo off of his body with so much force that he heard the seams tear. 

He wanted zero reminders of who he was or where he was. 

Now, down to nothing but his underwear and socks, Lando curled up under his duvet, begging for the presence of sleep to take over. 

It didn’t happen quickly, and he was left there with his thoughts pressing in on all sides. It wasn’t until hours later, with his pillow soaked with tears, and twenty missed calls and messages on his phone that was thrown on the floor, did sleep finally grab a hold of him.