Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

It’s the morning of qualifying and Oscar’s been in the paddock since before sunrise, the air still heavy with that faint, metallic paddock smell of burnt fuel, rubber, and expensive coffee. While the others are either still asleep or preparing for qualifying, he’s in the simulator room, running setups that will only ever be used if someone else asks for them.

He adjusts the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and starts another lap.

“Try increasing the front wing by point-five,” an engineer says through the headset.

“Copy,” Oscar replies, calm and automatic. His thumbs move over the dials, his brain already five corners ahead. The track on the screen isn’t the real one but he knows every inch of it anyway.

He finishes the lap, logs the data, and pulls off his gloves. “That’s the best compromise for rear grip,” he says, though he knows they already have their own ideas.

“Noted,” the engineer says flatly. Not a thank you, not good work, just noted.

Oscar exhales, sits back, and rubs his eyes. Sometimes it feels like he could drive the perfect lap and still vanish into the walls.

By the time he leaves the simulator room, the paddock is alive again with cameras, mechanics, and the sharp rhythm of people with purpose. He tucks his lanyard under his jacket and starts the walk toward the Alpine garage.

That’s when he sees them. Lando, standing just outside the McLaren hospitality with Max Fewtrell. Oscar recognises him as Lando’s best friend from some of his streams and Instagram photos.

Lando’s wearing the team polo and black jeans, the cap sitting backwards on his head. He looks relaxed, mid-laugh, easy in the way people who belong always seem to. Oscar doesn’t mean to stare. He just… slows.

“Hey!” Lando spots him first, bright smile flicking across his face. “Piastri!”

Oscar blinks, startled that Lando had called out to him, startled that Lando had even remembered him. “Oh, uh, hey.”

“Busy morning?” Lando asks, stepping closer.

“Simulator runs,” Oscar nods. “Setup work. You?”

“Media, meetings, you know, pretending I have time to breathe.” He grins, then eyes Oscar up and down in mock seriousness. “You always this efficient looking at ten in the morning?”

Oscar laughs before he can stop himself. “Efficient looking?”

“Yeah. Like if I handed you a laptop right now, you’d build me a car from scratch.”

It’s stupid and unexpected and somehow charming enough that it knocks him off balance, the laugh bursting from before he can hold it back, bright, unguarded and just a little awkward. “I, uh, yeah, maybe,” he stammers, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Lando’s grin widens, pleased at his own effect. “Cute.”

Oscar freezes. “What?”

“Nothing.” Lando says it too fast, pretending to scratch the back of his neck. “Anyway, this is my mate Max. Max  this is Oscar Piastri, future champ.”

Max, who’s been standing just behind him the entire time, gives a lazy wave. “Hey, man.”

“Hi,” Oscar says, still trying to recover from whatever that was. “Well,” he adds quickly, “I should probably get back to Alpine.”

“Yeah, of course,” Lando says, smiling again, softer this time. “See you around?”

“Sure.”

“Cool.”

Oscar walks off, trying desperately to fight the urge to look back over his shoulder. He’s a few steps away before he exhales properly, heartbeat louder than it should be. Then he hears it, faintly, just behind him. Max’s voice, casual and teasing. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You,” Oscar hears Max pause. “You had your flirty voice on.”

Lando’s indignant squawk cuts through instantly. “What… ?! I didn’t! Jesus, Max no, no. I wasn’t flirting, I’m pretty sure the guy’s still a teenager. I was just being nice.”

“Uh huh.”

Oscar stops. For half a second, he just stands there, he can feel the red flush spreading across his face and down his neck, his stomach twisting in on itself. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps walking.

…

Qualifying goes exactly how everyone expects it to. Lando is untouchable. Purple in every sector, sharp in the corners, clean under pressure. Watching from the Alpine garage, Oscar feels something complicated settle in his chest, admiration, envy, pride for someone he barely knows.

When the chequered flag falls and the radio crackles with McLaren’s cheers, he finds himself smiling, just a little.

“And that’s Lando Norris on pole for the Australian Grand Prix!”

The crowd outside roars. In the Alpine garage, no one even looks his way.

By the time the debrief ends, the sun’s long gone, replaced by floodlights stretching shadows across the paddock. Oscar’s exhausted in that deep, bone-heavy way that comes from doing too much work for too little purpose. He tugs his jacket tighter and heads for the exit. He’s halfway across the paddock when someone calls his name.

“Piastri!”

He turns. Lando’s jogging toward him, hair still damp from being in the car, cap turned backwards again. His shirt clinging to his chest, a little sheen of sweat still visible. Oscar’s pulse does something inconvenient.

“Hey,” Lando says, a little breathless. “You heading to the drivers’ briefing?”

“What?”

“The briefing. They moved it up to nine.” Lando pauses, “Most of the other reserve drivers will be there.”

“Oh.” Oscar hesitates, confusion cutting through his fatigue. “I uh, I didn’t know it was on.”

Lando frowns. “Your team didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.” Oscar forces a laugh that doesn’t sound quite right. “Guess I wasn’t on the mailing list.”

Lando’s expression shifts, sympathy, or maybe frustration on his behalf. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” Oscar’s throat tightens. “I’m sure they just forgot, I guess,” Oscar shrugs, though even he can hear the crack of something small and disappointment in his voice.

For a moment, it’s awkward. Lando shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels. Oscar stares at the ground, toe scuffing against the painted paddock line.

Then Lando sighs softly. “I should go before I get yelled at for being late.”

“Yeah, of course.”

He turns to go, but Oscar calls after him. “Lando?”

Lando looks back, eyebrows raised.

“Good job today,” Oscar says quietly. “Pole looked… easy.”

Lando’s grin returns, warm and unguarded. “Thanks. You’ll be there soon enough.”

Oscar wants to believe him.

“Goodnight, Piastri.”

“Goodnight, Norris.”

Lando disappears through the tunnel toward the FIA suite. The lights catch the edge of his shirt as he goes, the papaya orange bright against the silver paddock.

Oscar stands there for a long moment before walking back toward the car park, the echo of Lando saying his name still lingering like a promise he’s not sure he deserves.

…

The sun’s already burning hot over Albert Park as Oscar swipes his pass to get into the paddock. Race day hums with the kind of energy that buzzes in the bones. Even before sunrise, the paddock feels alive, engines growling in the warm up, air thick with heat and tension. Everyone has somewhere to be. Everyone except him.

Oscar walks to the Alpine hospitality with his headphones in, trying to quiet the noise in his head. Alpine employees are running around preparing for the race. Engineers lean over laptops, muttering about numbers and split times. He’s just the extra body in the corner, useful but never essential.

“Oscar,” he hears the shout come from behind him.

He turns and there they are. His parents and sisters, standing just inside the garage, bright with excitement. He hadn’t been able to see them yet since he arrived back in Australia, between the sponsor events and Alpine keeping him working. There hadn’t been a moment to breathe, let alone drive home to see them. The guilt still sits heavy in his chest though, even as he sees his Mum right in front of him, holding her phone like she can’t stop herself from taking photos; his Dad with that tight smile that’s pride and worry all mixed together.

“Mum,” Oscar says, unable to stop the small smile that creeps onto his face.

She pulls him into a hug before he can protest. “Hi sweetheart,” Nicole holds him tightly before pulling away and looking him up and down. “You look exhausted.”

Oscar sighs, “Please don’t start Mum.”

“I just worry about you, you’re my boy.”

“I know,” Oscar responds.

“Oscar,” his youngest sister Mae squeals as she runs up to him, his other two sisters Hattie and Edie behind her. “You’re an F1 driver!”

“No Mae,” he lets out a stuttered laugh, cheeks pink. “I’m just…”

“…the reserve driver,” his Dad, Chris finishes, teasing but warm. “And one day, the main one. Don’t sell yourself short.”

His sisters are hovering beside him, wide-eyed as everyone moves around them in a choreographed fashion. Hattie whispers, “This is so cool,” like it’s sacred.

Oscar glances towards them, worried about getting in the way. “We should probably step aside…”

“Don’t worry, love,” Nicole says softly. “We won’t stay long. Just wanted to see you quickly before we head to our seats.”

He nods, throat tight. “Yeah. It’s good to see you.”

As they leave, Chris pauses, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t lose heart, son. It’s a long game.”

Oscar nods again, forcing a smile. “I know.”

When they go, the hospitality suite suddenly feels emptier. The warmth they brought leaves behind something heavier, that same ache of being on the sidelines, of knowing they’re proud but wishing they could be proud for something that counted.

…

Hours later, the paddock is in chaos as everyone prepares for the race to begin. Oscar is walking from the grid back to the Alpine garage, headset on, tablet in his hand, just as the grid walk opens. Swarms of fans make their way onto the grid, phones out ready to take selfies with the cars. Oscar finds himself weaving through the clusters of media, mechanics and celebrities crowding the tarmac. Nodding polite smiles as he manoeuvres his way between people. He’s just passed through the fence separating the grid from the pit lane when someone steps into his path causing him to suddenly sidestep and collide with a solid shoulder. The impact jolts him, a startled noise catching in his throat as he stumbles backwards. A hand reaching out to grab Oscar’s arm in an attempt to steady him.

“Sorry, I…” he starts, but stops when he sees who it is. Lando. He has his helmet bag in one hand, gloves stuffed under his arm. His race suit is half-zipped, hair curling damp against his forehead. He’s grinning as he looks at Oscar, easy, bright, familiar now in way that shouldn’t feel familiar.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Oscar nods, feeling his face flush. “Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Lando laughs, a short burst that cuts through the noise. “Guess we both weren’t.” He pulls his arm back and tilts his head, eyes flicking over Oscar’s Alpine shirt, “Busy morning?”

“Trying to look like I have purpose,” Oscar says before he can stop himself. It earns a snort from Lando.

“Trust me, you look like you’re running the whole show,” Lando’s tone is teasing, light. Then he adds, lower, “You look good in blue, by the way.”

Oscar blinks. “Uh, thanks.” More heat rushes up the back of his neck and to his cheeks. He hopes the sound of the engines drown out the awkward pause that follows.

Lando just smiles wider, as if pleased by his reaction. “You staying out for the start?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be watching from the garage.”

“Good. I’ll have to make sure I get a good start then. Have to win for your home race right?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Confident much?”

“Always,” Lando’s grin softens for a beat, sincerity sneaking in under the bravado. “Seriously though, it’s nice seeing you around Piastri.”

Before Oscar can reply, a McLaren mechanic calls Lando’s name. Lando gives the mechanic a small wave and steps backwards as if to start walking away. But before he does, he taps Oscar’s arm as he turns away. “Wish me luck.”

“Like you need it,” Oscar calls after him, but Lando’s already gone, swallowed up by the orange swarm moving toward the grid.

Oscar stands still for a moment, the ghost of that touch lingering on his sleeve, his heartbeat too loud in his ears. Then he exhales, tucks the tablet under his arm, and continues on his way to the garage, pretending he doesn’t still feel that brief collision replaying in his chest.

…

Oscar’s in the back of the Alpine garage as Lando crosses the start / finish line and the timing screen flicks over to lap 56 out of 58. Oscar’s eyes keep flicking between the data screens and the media coverage. The noise is deafening, engines screaming, fans chanting, radio calls overlapping.

He knows every line of this circuit, every gear change, every brake point. He could run the laps blind. He remembers driving through Albert Park every day on his way to his school and riding his bike around the circuit on weekends, taking the kerbs and riding on the racing line, engine sounds coming out his mouth as he did so.

But he’s not the one driving today. Lando is, and when Lando crosses the finish line first, when the McLaren garage erupts in joy, Oscar’s finds himself clapping quietly from the shadows.

“And Lando Norris wins the Australian Grand Prix. Norris starts off where he finished last season with another win. The perfect start in his title defence.”

Oscar’s hears the commentary of the media coverage, somehow coming in clearly over the banging and clattering of the mechanics starting to wheel the cars back into the garage. His chest twists with something like admiration, pride, exhaustion, envy, all tangled together into something Oscar can’t quite name.

Oscar watches as the screen cuts to a replay of Lando’s onboard, his helmet bobbing as he crosses the line. His voice sharp with disbelief over the radio, his high-pitched laughter, half-choked, full of adrenaline. “Ahhh yes! Let’s gooo! What a race, that was insane. Thanks everyone, incredible job. The car felt absolutely mega today.”

Someone barrels past Oscar, knocking his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Either help or get out man,” the man snaps already halfway across the garage again, likely not even noticing that Oscar isn’t one of the mechanics.

Oscar swallows, staring in the direction the man went, his fingers tightening around the hem of his shirt. He wants to scream something like ‘notice me’ but he doesn’t, he never does. Instead, he steps back getting out of the way, watching as the team moves around him with the kind of precision and urgency his doesn’t understand. And for the first time, it really sinks in how far on the outside he’s become.

…

Oscar makes it back to the Alpine hospitality without incident, the noise of the outside paddock faded and muffled inside the walls.

“Oscar!”

He pauses, halfway through unzipping his team jacket and turns to see his Mum weaving her way through the crowd with his sisters in tow, his Dad a few steps behind with a grin that looks tired but proud.

“There’s our boy!” Chris says. “We saw you come up on the broadcast a couple of times.”

Oscar smiles, genuinely this time. “I’m surprised the cameras even remembered we exist.”

Nicole laughs then squeezes his arm. “Doesn’t matter. You were there. That’s what counts.”

He nods but the words sting more than she means them too. ‘You were there’.

They talk for a few minutes, his sisters asking about the cars, Chris joking about sneaking into the pit lane next year. It’s warm, grounding, but it also makes something ache deep down, the reminder that they still see this as the dream fulfilled, not the dream paused.

Before they leave, Nicole leans up and kisses his cheek. “We’re proud of you sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”

He smiles softly, “I won’t.”

But when they walk away, he stands still for a long time, hands shoved in his pockets, wishing pride felt like enough.

…

When Oscar finally leaves the Alpine hospitality suite later that evening, the sun is just about fully set behind the Melbourne city skyline. Lando’s victory still echoing through every corner of the paddock, the smell of champagne clinging to the air like electricity.

He’s hallway across the paddock when he hears someone call his name.

“Piastri!”

He turns, Lando’s jogging towards him, still in his race suit, half unzipped and tied around his waist, the black undershirt damp and clinging to his chest. His hairs a mess, still sticky from champagne and sweat, and there’s a brightness to his eyes that only victory can give.

“Hey,” Oscar says, smiling before he can stop himself. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks mate,” Lando grins as he steps up next to Oscar. “Not going to lie, winning feels pretty good.”

“Yeah I bet,” Oscar mutters, a half-smile on his face. “You made it look easy out there.”

Lando laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t tell Andrea that, he’ll just say I finally followed instructions for once,”

Oscar smirks. “Did you?”

“Absolutely not.”

They both laugh quietly, the sound soft and a little private amid the chaos. When it fades, Lando glances over at him, “You were in the garage yeah? Watching?”

“Yeah,” Oscar nods.

“What did you think?”

Oscar hesitates, then shrugs. “You were good. Clean, controlled. It was a good drive, beautiful even…” Oscar trails off, not meaning to say that, a blush creeping across his cheeks.

Lando smiles widely, the kind that shows off the gap in between his front teeth and the dimples in his cheeks. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Oscar blinks caught off guard. “Coming from me?”

“You’ve got a good eye. Can tell you’ve done the laps.” He means it, Oscar can tell. It makes something small and aching unfold in his chest. Lando continues before Oscar can say anything. “You’ll be in the car here eventually Oscar, we all know it.”

“Thanks,” Oscar says, trying to ignore the stuttering in his heart. “Just struggling to believe that at the moment.”

“That’s okay, I’ll believe it enough for the both of us,” Lando shrugs before nudging Oscar’s arm. “You heading back now?”

“Yeah, probably heading straight to the hotel.”

“Boring,” Lando grins again, that familiar spark returning.

“Oi Lando!” Max appears from doorway the McLaren hospitality suite, jogging over when he sees Lando and Oscar look in his direction. “Stop chatting and hurry up. We’ve got some celebrating to do, don’t make us wait for you to finish your beauty routine.”

Lando laughs, rolling his eyes but not stepping away from Oscar. “Yeah, yeah. Give me five minutes okay? I just need to shower and then we’ll be good to head off.”

Max smirks, looking between Lando and Oscar. Oscar feeling unease at the knowing look in his eyes. “Fine, five minutes. Then I’m leaving without you Norris.” He points a finger at Lando and disappears back into the hospitality suite.

For a moment it’s just the two of them again, the hum of the paddock around them filling the silence Max left behind. Lando glances at Oscar, eyes bright. “You should come out with us tonight,” he says, casual but with that soft edge that makes it sounds like more than just an afterthought. “It’s just a few drinks with some friends to celebrate. Nothing crazy.”

Oscar hesitates, automatically deflecting. “I don’t know if that’s really my scene.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Just show up, have one drink, you’ve earned that.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“You showed up,” Lando says. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

Oscar looks at him, the easy grin, the flushed skin, the warmth that seems to radiate out from him. He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Here,” Lando says simply as he tilts his head toward the door. “Come find me before you leave. I’ll give you the details then.”

Oscar blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, um… sure.”

There’s a beat, light but charged, as they stand there. Oscar can feel Lando’s eyes on him, warm and expectant, the kind of look that makes it hard to think straight.

Lando’s voice softens just slightly when he adds, “I want you there, Oscar. Just… think about it, yeah? Don’t overthink it.” He steps back, giving Oscar a small, almost shy smile before disappearing into the crowd.

“Too late,” Oscar mutters but Lando’s already gone, jogging back toward the McLaren hospitality suite.

Back in his hotel room, Oscar drops back onto his bed, staring straight up at the ceiling. The air conditioning hums quietly. The noise of people from the street below filters up through the balcony doors, laughter, horns, the pulse of celebration. He should be asleep. He tells himself that three times.

But every time he closes his eyes he hears Lando’s voice echoing in his head. ‘Come out tonight. Don’t overthink it.’

He looks at his phone. There’s a message from one of the Alpine engineers about the coming weeks sim schedule.

Lando had found him again before the night wound down, exactly as he’d promised. He’d been quick about it too, rattling off the time and place with an easy confidence, eyes flicking up to Oscar’s as if checking he was listening. He’d ended it with a bright grin and a, “Really hope you’ll come, Oscar,” punctuated by that same silly little smile that had stuck in Oscar’s head far longer than it should’ve.

Still, his mind won’t settle. He keeps seeing flashes, Lando’s grin, the easy way he said things that made Oscar’s stomach flutter. Oscar groans softly and rubs his face. “This is so fucking stupid,” he mutters.

Ten minutes later, he’s changed his clothes twice, grabbed his keycard and is heading out the door, telling himself it’s just for one drink.

Chapter Text

The bar Lando had chosen was pulsing with noise, laughter spilling out onto the street, faint music bleeding into the night. Neon lights wash over the pavement as Oscar hesitates on the curb, hands wringing the hem of his button up shirt. He’s watching people come and go, he could still leave, no one would even know he’d been here in the first place.

He shakes his head and heads to the entrance.

“ID?”

A bouncer stands square in the doorway, arms crossed, black shirt straining against his shoulders.

“Oh right, yeah here,” Oscar fumbles with his wallet.

The bouncer takes the card, eyes flicking between the photo and Oscar’s face, his expression doesn’t change. The mans squints his eyes and Oscar’s waiting for him to start questioning whether it’s a fake when the bouncer shrugs and hands the card back. “Alright, go on in. Keep it clean yeah?”

“Will do.”

Oscar slips past him, the weight of the man’s doubt clinging to his shoulders. Inside the bar the air hits like a wall, warm, and thick with the stench of beer and perfume. The floor vibrates underfoot from the bass.

Oscar hesitates just inside the doorway, hands still gripping the hem of his shirt like a lifeline. He feels completely out of his comfort zone right now.

“Piastri!”

It comes from above, cutting through the noise like a flash. Oscar looks up and finds Lando standing on the balcony that runs along the inside wall. Lando’s grin is wide, cheeks flushed, curls a little messy from the night. He looks loose, unguarded, champagne still glowing under his skin.

“You came!”

Lando’s face disappears as he turns and comes bounding down the stairs. Before Oscar knows it, Lando’s crossing the room, drink in hand, laughing as he nearly trips over the leg of a chair. When he reaches Oscar, there’s no hesitation, his arms are around Oscar in a sudden hug that smells like whiskey, cologne and something faintly citrus.

Oscar freezes. His brain short-circuits for a beat, his arms awkwardly hovering before he remembers to return it. Lando’s body is warm, his laugh pressed against Oscar’s ear.

“Was starting to worry you wouldn’t show,” Lando says when he finally pulls back, his hand gripping Oscar’s arm. “Come on, we’re upstairs.”

Oscar barely has time to answer before Lando’s fingers slip down to his wrist, tugging lightly, guiding him up the stairs and toward a large booth in the corner. Oscar stumbles after him, pulse beating a little too fast.

Lando slides into the seat next to Max Fewtrell who has his arm around the blonde woman next to him. Oscar follows, ending up pressed between Lando and the armrest. Across from them sits Jon who Oscar recognises as Lando’s trainer. Jon is in conversation with a couple of guys and a brunette woman Oscar vaguely recognises from Lando’s social media. The table’s chaos but in the kind of way that feels effortless, laughter is bouncing between them, hands waving.

“Everyone, this is Oscar,” Lando announces, already halfway into another drink. “Oscar, everyone.” There’s a mix of greetings, waves, smiles, a couple of teasing whoops.

“You drink beer or something fancier?”

“Beers fine,” Oscar says.

Lando signals to a waiter without even looking, and within seconds there’s a cold bottle in front of him.

One of the guys leans forward on his elbows, focus on Oscar. “You’re the Alpine kid right? The one who won all the junior categories back to back?”

Oscar chuckles, embarrassed. “Yeah, that was me.”

“Ooft mate,” Max says, leaning around Lando. “You were what, seventeen when you were giving half of F2 a crisis?”

“Seventeen yeah,” Oscar confirms, laughing.

The brunette woman smirks from across the table. “So young. Shouldn’t you be doing homework right now?”

A few people laugh. Oscar smiles politely, “Nah, graduated from that kind of torture.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Don’t start, Ruby. He’s old enough to make you cry on a track, promise you that.”

“Oh, please,” she says, swirling her drink. “If he can handle corners as well as comebacks, maybe I’d believe it.”

Lando laughs, loud and genuine, bumping his shoulder lightly against Oscar’s. “Ignore her. She’s allergic to nice people.”

Jon grins. “And to cardio.”

Ruby flips him off good-naturedly.

The group slips back into its rhythm, laughter looping, the kind of overlapping conversation that happens only between people who’ve known each other for years. Oscar learns that the blonde next to Max is Pietra, his longtime partner, two guys are Matt and Ryan, friends of Lando’s from his karting days, and the brunette woman is Ruby, Ryan’s partner, who also happens to be a F1 academy driver.

Oscar mostly listens, smiling when he’s supposed to, nodding when someone makes eye contact. Every now and then, Lando leans close to explain a reference or shout something in his ear, and each time, the warmth of his breath makes Oscar forget what he was thinking.

But then someone asks him a question about racing lines in Formula 2, and before he knows it, he’s talking about car balance, about Monaco’s street corners, about what it feels like to hit the perfect lap on old tyres.

And people listen. Not half-heartedly. Not like they’re humouring him. They actually listen, eyes on him, questions that build instead of end. It’s the first time in a long time he’s talked about racing like it’s his own again.

And Lando, Lando’s watching him too, chin resting on his hand, eyes bright. When the topic of conversation moves on to something else, Oscar’s eyes lock on to Lando’s and Oscar can’t help it, he lets out a bright laugh. Lando just smiles like that was the goal.

…

Half an hour passes in a blur of noise and drinks. Oscar nursing his original beer, taking small sips, while Lando’s group powers through rounds.

Max leans forward, spotting Oscar’s untouched drink. “You’re not drinking?”

“Uh no, not much of a beer person to be honest.”

“Haven’t acclimatised to the taste yet?” Max jokes.

“Something like that,” Oscar laughs.

“So,” Ruby says suddenly, her eyes glinting in the low light. “You really legal? You look like you should have a permission slip to be here.”

Oscar blinks caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. I’m nineteen.”

Max grins. “Told you. He’s legal, Ruby. Relax.”

“Barely,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “God, when I was nineteen, I could barely afford a cab home.”

Jon smirks. “When you were nineteen, Uber didn’t exist.”

“Rude,” Ruby says, laughing. “Anyway, you sure you’re not sneaking in here with a fake ID?”

Oscar laughs politely, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s real, promise.”

Lando’s eyes flick across to him, expression softening. “Don’t tease him too much, Ruby. He’s already got enough trauma from working for Alpine.”

That earns a laugh from everyone, including Oscar, and the tension eases.

But Ruby’s not quite done. She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So, what’s it like being the baby of the group? Must be weird hanging out with all these old people.”

Oscar shrugs, keeping it light. “You get used to it. Racing makes everyone age in dog years anyway.”

That earns him a grin from Jon and a surprised bark of laughter from Max. “He’s not wrong.”

Ruby tilts her head, smiling in approval. “Okay, he’s got some bite.”

“Told you,” Lando says, elbow nudging Oscar lightly. “He’s not shy, just quiet. There’s a difference.”

Oscar glances at him, catching that small spark of pride in his eyes, and something shifts quietly in his chest.

The music changes. The lights dim further. Conversation melts into a softer hum. Ruby’s already turning toward Pietra, plotting some kind of trip to the dance floor.

“Come on,” Ruby says, standing, dragging Matt and Ryan up with her. “Let’s go.”

“Not a chance,” Max says immediately.

“Oh, come on,” Pietra protests, tugging on Max’s hands who sighs reluctantly and gets up to join his girlfriend. “We’re celebrating!”

Ruby looks to Lando next. “You’re coming too, champ.”

Lando laughs, holding his drink higher. “I’m good here.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be boring. You’re supposed to be the fun one.”

Lando glances at Oscar. “You want to dance?”

Oscar blinks, startled by the question. “Uh, not really.”

“There you go,” Lando says, smiling at Ruby. “He’s not feeling it. I’ll keep him company.”

Ruby groans, rolling her eyes. “You’re hopeless. Thought you were supposed to be celebrating, not babysitting.”

Laughter bubbles from the others still waiting by the table. Oscar’s stomach drops. Lando freezes, his grin fading, eyes flickering to Oscar for a second before focusing back on Ruby and the others. “What was that?”

Ruby shrugs. “Come on Lando, I’m not trying to be mean, but you did bring a kid to a bar.”

Oscar feels his face flush and can feel his pulse as he stares down at his hands.

“Alright, enough,” Lando says, the lightness gone from his voice. The laughter dies instantly. “He’s not a kid. I’d like to see you lot try and do what Osc does everyday and see how you go. Until then that’s enough with the comments about his age.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the air shifting. Then Ruby snorts. “Okay calm down, didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yeah, well,” Lando mutters, finishing his drink, “maybe think before you talk.”

“Whatever,” Ruby says, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd with the others.

“I’m sorry about Ruby, I didn’t know she’d act like this. Wouldn’t have invited her if I did,” Lando apologises.

Oscar says nothing, just murmurs, “It’s fine,” even though it isn’t. But when he risks a glance at Lando, he finds him already looking back, eyes soft, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his mouth. It’s the kind of look that makes it hard to breathe.

Lando doesn’t say anything else, just taps his glass lightly against Oscar’s. “Cheers, future world champion.”

Oscar clinks his glass against Lando’s in return and smiles despite himself.

…

After that the night rolls on, the mood recovering, but Oscar can’t shake the unease. Lando leans back into the booth, legs stretched out, laughter easy and unfiltered. Every time someone speaks to him, he grins like he was born for this, all light and motion and noise.

Lando excuses himself a few minutes later, sliding out of the booth with his empty glass in hand. “Going for a refill,” he says over the music, flashing a quick grin. “You want anything?”

Oscar shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

Lando nods, then weaves through the crowd toward the bar. The neon lights flash across his face as he goes, the back of his shirt catching the glow before he disappears behind a wall of people.

The rest of the group settles into a rhythm. Oscar half listens, fingers tracing condensation circles on the table. He doesn’t fit here without Lando, the others have made that quite clear, having all but given up on attempting to include him in conversations once they returned from the dance floor.

He turns to look in the direction of the bar, he finds Lando almost immediately and feels himself frown. Lando’s talking to someone, a girl, blonde, glitter catching in her hair under the lights. She laughs at something he says, hand brushing his arm. Oscar looks away.

“Guess Norris is getting some tonight,” Matt calls across the table, voice carrying easily over the noise.

Oscar catches Max’s eyes who is watching him intently, Oscar forces a small smile before fixing his gaze on his drink.

Lando comes back a minute later, still holding his refill. He drops back into the booth beside Oscar for a moment, their shoulders touching.

“Miss me?” He jokes, voice warm from the alcohol.

“You weren’t gone that long,” Oscar says, smiling faintly.

“Eh, it was long enough,” Lando shrugs casually, and for a heartbeat Oscar doesn’t think Lando is going to look away. Then one of the guys across the booth shouts his name.

“Lando! Your blonde friend’s waiting!”

Lando laughs, looking away from Oscar whilst shaking his head. “Subtle guys.” He glances at Oscar, something flickering across his face, a hesitation maybe, or guilt, or just indecision. Then he sets his glass down. “Back in a sec, yeah?”

Oscar nods, even though his chest feels weirdly tight. “Sure”.

Lando stands, running a hand through his curls as heads back toward the bar. The blonde’s still there, smiling when he returns. He leans in to say something and she laughs, the sounds lost in the music.

Oscar takes another sip of his beer. It’s warm now, flat. He swirls what’s left, pretending he doesn’t notice Max watching him as the rest of the group’s attention drifts again. Pretending it doesn’t bother him that Lando’s still turned toward her, back to the table.

Oscar tries to focus but he keeps glancing toward the bar, catching glimpses of Lando through the crowd. Oscar watches as Lando leans in close to the blonde, she laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder, hand brushing his chest.

He looks away, jaw tight. It’s fine, its none of his business. He tells himself that twice, maybe three times, but it doesn’t help. The warmth from earlier, Lando making him feel welcome and the easy jokes he whispered in Oscar’s ear to make him laugh, is gone. He feels it draining out of him, replaced by something heavier.

“Oscar?” Oscar focuses back on the group, Max watching him still with concern. “You good?”

Oscar forces a small nod. “Yeah. Just a bit tired.”

But after a few more minutes, he can’t sit still anymore. He slides out of the booth quietly, muttering something about needing air. No one seems to notice except Max who nods and gives him a small reassuring smile as he moves past.

Oscar slips outside into the night. The air outside is cooler than he expects, sharp against the back of his neck. A streetlight flickers above the bar’s awning, painting everything in amber. The street hums faintly with traffic. He closes his eyes as he leans against the railing outside the bar, shoulders dropping as he exhales.

Inside, the noise fades into background static. For the first time all night, he can think. He doesn’t know why it stings so much, the jokes, the easy touches, the way Lando fits into every space so naturally. Maybe because it reminds him of everything he isn’t. He wonders what he’s even doing here. Whether he belongs in any of this, in F1, in Alpine, in Lando’s orbit. The thought tightens his chest.

He doesn’t hear the door open until it clicks shut.

“Didn’t think you’d disappear on me.”

He opens his eyes. Lando’s standing there, hair a little messier now, cheeks flushed from drink and laughter.

“Needed some air,” Oscar says.

Lando joins him at the railing, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Fair. It’s hot in there. And loud.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, they just stand there, watching the reflections of headlights slide across the wet pavement. The silence between them is steady, not awkward, the kind that only happens when words might break something fragile.

Lando nudges him lightly with his elbow. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Oscar hesitates. “Not really.”

Lando turns to look at him properly. “What’s going on?”

Oscar takes a slow breath. “I don’t even really know to be honest. I just… sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“As in here tonight?”

“More in general I guess.” He laughs softly, but it’s humourless. “I spend hours in the simulator, running numbers, watching other people race. Everyone else has momentum. I’m just static.”

Lando’s quiet for a moment. “You think you’re wasting time.”

“Yeah.”

He nods, thoughtful. “I get that. I used to feel the same, back before I debuted. Watching others get the shot first, wondering if I’d missed my window. It’s the worst kind of waiting, the kind where you don’t know if the door’s still open.”

Oscar looks down at his hands, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “Yeah. And it’s hard not to think maybe I’m just,” he pauses, throat tightening, “not good enough.”

Lando’s gaze sharpens, that teasing warmth from before fading into something steadier. “You are.”

Oscar shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

When Oscar doesn’t answer, Lando exhales through his nose and shifts, turning toward him. “You’re better than you think. And you’re allowed to struggle every now and then. Doesn’t mean you’re failing. Just means you care. And that’s a good thing.”

Oscar’s chest feels tight. “You really think that? You barely know me.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

The honesty in his voice does something strange to Oscar, something that feels like both relief and ache all at once.

“I’ve thought about quitting,” Oscar admits, barely above a whisper. “Not forever, just… sometimes. When it feels like I’m invisible.”

Lando doesn’t respond right away. Then, slowly, he reaches out and takes Oscar’s hand. The contact is simple, warm skin against cold, tan against pale, but it feels seismic. Lando’s grip is firm, thumb brushing lightly across the back of Oscar’s knuckles.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “You’re too good to walk away from this.”

Oscar’s breath catches. The words hit harder than he expects, maybe because no one else has ever said them like that, like they were a promise.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep waiting for,” Oscar admits, his voice cracking just slightly.

Lando squeezes his hand, tighter now. “You can. You have to. Because one day, you’ll look back at this and realise this was the part that made you dangerous, the waiting, the frustration, the hunger. You’ll be unstoppable because of it.”

Oscar stares at him, unable to look away. “You sound sure.”

“I am,” Lando says, smiling faintly. “I’ve been where you are. And if I can get through it, so can you.”

They don’t move for a long time. The city hums quietly around them, cars passing, wind shifting. The music from the bar fades into a muffled heartbeat behind the walls. Oscar realises he’s still holding Lando’s hand, or maybe Lando’s still holding his. Either way, neither of them seems in a hurry to let go.

“Lando,” Oscar says quietly, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say after that.

Lando looks at him, eyes soft, expression unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah?”

Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Lando’s thumb moves once more across his skin, gentle, deliberate, before he finally lets go. The space between them feels colder instantly. Someone calls Lando’s name from inside. He sighs, glancing toward the door.

“I should go before they start a search party,” he says with a small laugh. Then softer, “You good?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

Lando starts to step away, then pauses. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t give up. Not even when it feels pointless. Especially then.”

Oscar swallows, nodding once. “I promise.”

Lando smiles, small, genuine, almost tired. “Good.”

He gives a light tap to Oscar’s arm, then turns back toward the door. Before going in, he glances over his shoulder once, eyes catching the streetlight. “Come back in when you’re ready.”

Then Lando disappears back inside, the door closing behind him, taking the light and noise with it. Oscar stays where he is, staring at the space Lando just left. His pulse is still racing, though nothing about the night feels fast anymore. He flexes his hand, and it feels like the warmth hasn’t faded. For the first time in a long while, the silence doesn’t feel empty, it feels full.

He should go back in, he knows that. But part of him doesn’t want to disturb whatever fragile calm is left. The quiet feels too rare, like if he moves too suddenly, it’ll vanish.

He rolls his shoulders, exhales, and finally pushes off the railing. The door opens on the first push, a rush of laughter, heat, and music spilling back into him all at once. The noise is disorienting after the stillness outside. The bar feels smaller, tighter. The air tastes like whiskey and lime and sweat.

He threads through the crowd heading back toward the booth but when he gets there it’s empty, save for a handful of empty and half drunk glasses and bottles. He turns, eyes sweeping through the crowd of people looking for Lando or anyone he recognised.

It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s on one of the couches near the far wall, legs stretched out, drink in hand. The blonde woman from the bar sits beside him. They’re both smiling. She’s leaning into him, one hand resting lightly on his chest. Lando says something in her ear, low enough that she laughs, head tipping toward his shoulder.

Oscar freezes mid-step. Something strange happens in his chest, not sharp, but deep, like a low ache he can’t name. The world doesn’t narrow exactly, but it shifts, tilting slightly off its axis. He looks away quickly, scanning the room as if pretending to search for someone else. His hands feel awkward, heavy, like they don’t know what to do anymore. The noise around him blurs. Someone brushes past his shoulder, someone else calls out a toast.

He catches sight of Max across the room, talking animatedly with someone he doesn’t recognise. When Max notices him, he raises his glass in greeting, a casual acknowledgment. Oscar forces a smile and a half-hearted wave before turning back toward the door.

He doesn’t look at Lando again. Not when the blonde woman laughs and touches his face. Not when Lando grins, soft and easy in return. Not when he feels something in him sink, quiet and steady, like the tide pulling out. He just leaves.

He captures Max’s attention as he leaves, gesturing in what he hopes Max interprets as Oscar heading off. Max must as he nods and gives him a wave.

Outside, the cool air hits him again, sharper this time. The night smells the same, but it feels different this time, emptier somehow. He walks down the quiet street toward the hotel, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. Each step echoes faintly against the pavement.

He thinks about the way Lando’s hand had felt around his. The warmth and steadiness of it. The certainty in his voice when he’d said ‘don’t give up’.

It’s stupid, he tells himself. He’s overthinking again and reading too much into something simple.

Still, he can’t shake the thought that, for a few minutes outside that bar, he’d felt like someone had really seen him. Now, with the laughter fading behind him, he’s not sure he knows what to do with that.

By the time he gets back to his hotel room, the city’s gone still. The laughter from the bar a faint memory now, traded for the hum of the air conditioner and the glow of streetlights bleeding through the curtains. He drops his jacket on the chair, sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor for a long moment.  

Osc. Twice Lando had called him that tonight. Oscar ignores the way it sits in his chest, warm and unsettling all at once.

He exhales, turns the light off and lies back on the bed, the room fading to black as the noise settles around him.

Chapter Text

China blurs past in a way Oscar doesn’t expect. His days start before sunrise and end long after the garage lights have gone out. His headset always sits slightly askew from long hours running simulations until his vision swims with data lines and throttle percentages. He wakes, works, eats whatever’s closest to his laptop, and starts again.

He barely sees Lando the entire weekend, doesn’t get to talk to him at all. All he gets is small moments when they cross paths in the paddock, a wave when Lando passes Alpine’s hospitality area, a quick smile from across the media pen. The kind of acknowledgment that means nothing to anyone else but still lodges in Oscar’s chest.

However, there’s a part of Oscar that feels the weekend he spent with Lando in Australia was all he was meant to get of Lando. A few days of sunshine and laughter that wasn’t really his, just Lando letting him borrow it for a bit.

Lando’s weekend is busy. A solid P2 in the sprint race and the winner in the feature race. Lando’s name lighting up social feeds, his face splashed across every screen in the hospitality areas. The McLaren garage is a riot of noise and confetti, orange clad crew celebrating another victory.

Oscar claps along from the back of the Alpine garage. He means it, mostly, and tells himself he’s not jealous, that he’s proud of Lando. That this is how things are supposed to go for now. But it’s hard not to feel the sting when the celebration belongs to someone else. Even if that someone else is Lando Norris.

By the time he flies to Japan on the Monday after the race, the exhaustion clings to him like humidity. He’s not sure what hurts more, his back from the simulator seat or his chest from everything he’s not saying.

…

It’s a Tuesday morning in Japan when Mark Webber asks to grab coffee. Oscar, not realising his manager was even in Japan for the race weekend, had agreed and now finds himself sitting in the corner of the hotel café with the older Aussie. Both pretending this is a normal catch up and not the same conversation they’ve had for months.

Mark has been part of Oscar’s story since the early days. Back when he was still a quiet teenager racing karts and finishing schoolwork in hotel rooms. It was Mark who reached out first, a message through his Dad after watching him tear through a junior series weekend with impossible precision and calm. Mark saw something then in Oscar that others hadn’t yet. He took him under his wing, helped him find sponsors, negotiated his first F3 contract, and taught him how to survive the paddock politics just as much as how to find the racing line in tight corners. For years, Mark’s been more than a manager, he’s been part mentor and part father-figure, the steady voice in every moment of doubt.

Oscar swivels his hot chocolate mug back and forth between his hands. The smell of coffee beans is strong. The conversation isn’t.

Mark sits across from him, his tablet open as he scrolls, a faint furrow in his brows. “I’ve been in touch with a few teams,” he says. “Checking around for next year.”

Oscar looks up hopefully. “Any options?”

Mark exhales. “Nothing concrete. Alpine’s still on the fence about their driver lineup. Haas might be freeing up a seat. Williams are shuffling things around. They all say they’re keeping options open. Which in F1 talk usually means ‘not this season.’”

Oscar nods slowly, staring into his mug. “So… nothing basically.”

“I didn’t say that.” Mark gives him a sympathetic smile. “I said nothing yet. Look, you’re doing good work. Teams know you’re talented and the right people will notice. But seats are tight, and I just don’t want to promise something that might not come through.”

Oscar nods again, the weight settling heavier this time. “Got it.”

“I know it’s hard,” Mark says quietly. “You’re talented, you’re ready, but timing’s a bastard in this sport. Sometimes it’s not about being the best; it’s about being the one who fits.”

Oscar nods slowly. “You think Alpine will keep me another year?”

Mark hesitates, and that’s all the answer he needs. “I’ll keep fighting for you,” Mark says, tone firm again. “Don’t lose heart, okay?”

Oscar gives him a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

When they stand to leave, his hot chocolate is still full and cold. Mark gathers his tablet, slinging it under his arm, and gives Oscar a small smile.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “Happy Birthday for tomorrow mate.”

Oscar blinks, almost surprised, having forgotten that fact himself. “Oh, right. Thanks.”

“Don’t work too hard yeah? Take the day. Go enjoy yourself with some friends. Or considering I know you too well, if you are going to do some race work, at least do something that reminds you why you love this sport.”

Oscar huffs a faint laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Yeah I’ll try.”

Mark just chuckles in response, wrapping his arm around Oscar’s shoulder and leading him toward the door.

…

That night, the city glows beneath the hotel windows. Neon bleeds through the misty rain, catching on the glass and painting the room in flickering colour. Oscar’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop balanced on his knees. Telemetry scrolls past his tired eyes, throttle percentages, corner entries, steering angles. Numbers he knows by heart.

When the numbers start blurring together, Oscar finally shuts his laptop, shoves it into its case and decides he needs to get out of the room for a bit. The air conditioning humming loud enough to feel like a personal attack on Oscar’s head which aches from staring at his laptop for so long.

He takes the lift down to the lobby, planning to grab a drink from the vending machine or maybe just sit somewhere that isn’t the same four beige walls he’s been surrounded by for the past few hours. The hotel is quiet at this hour, the late shift staff talking softly between themselves behind the counter. The chandelier lights dimmed to a muted gold. He’s halfway to the vending machine when someone calls out from behind him.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

Oscar looks up. Lando’s leaning against the doorframe of the open doorway next to the vending machines. He has a pale blue hoodie on, hood up, curls poking out around his face, and a soft grin. Oscar can make out what he’s sure is Lando’s personal brand etched into the chest of the hoodie. There’s a small paper bag in his hand, grease already staining the bottom.

“Do we?” Oscar asks, smiling before he can stop himself.

“Probably not,” Lando says, pushing himself off the wall and taking the final steps so he’s now right next to Oscar. “Needed a late night snack,” he continues, waving the bag.

Oscar collects his drink and turns to face Lando fully. “You should be sleeping.”

“So should you,” Lando fires back. “What are you even doing up?”

“Data,” Oscar says, as if it explains everything. “Needed a break, my brain’s fried.”

Lando grins. “And you thought a hotel lobby at,” he pauses to look at his phone. “11.30pm at night was the fix?”

“It’s quiet,” Oscar says simply.

“Fair enough,” Lando shrugs and opens the paper bag, the smell of fried food wafting out. He shows Oscar the hot chips inside and asks “dinner?”

Oscar shrugs. “Yeah okay,” and follows Lando over to the couches scattered around the hotel lobby. “You always eat like this before a race weekend?”

“Only when Jon isn’t around to judge me,” Lando smirks and holds the bag of hot chips out to Oscar in an offer. Oscar laughs as he helps himself.

They settle into the couches, Lando barefoot after kicking off his slides, and stretches out. Oscar in the space next to him, taking up as little space as possible. They pass the chips easily between them as they talk about small things, Lando’s win in China, the flight here, jet lag, Japan traffic.

Then, inevitably, Lando leans forward, curiosity lighting his eyes. “So what was it you were working on tonight?”

“Sector three in Suzuka,” Oscar replies. “Trying to find two tenths I probably won’t ever need.”

Lando hums. “Show me.”

Oscar grabs his laptop from its case and opens it to show the endless data still present on the screen. Lando shifts closer so he can see the screen clearly, the couch cushion dipping slightly under his weight. Their thighs brush as Lando leans in closer. It’s nothing more than a fleeting touch, warm through the fabric, and Oscar tells himself not to notice, not to move. His body goes rigid still for half a second before he forces himself to breathe and be normal. It’s nothing, Lando just moving closer so they could both see his laptop screen clearly, nothing more than that. Oscar’s pulse however does not get that memo.

Lando slides the laptop toward himself, scanning the data graphs. The glow of the screen paints both of them in a blue light.

“You’re breaking too early into the chicane,” Lando says. “You’ve got the grip by the looks of this but let it roll more before turning in. You’ll carry better speed onto the straight that way.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “You giving me coaching lessons now?”

“Free of charge,” Lando says, smirking.

They work through a few laps together, side by side on the couch, shoulders and legs brushing every now and then. It’s quiet except for the soft click of keys and the occasional input from Lando when he spots something. The lobby is empty besides them and a lonely staff member behind the reception desk.

When Oscar finally closes his laptop, Lando stretches, arms over his head, eyes soft and voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever give yourself time to have fun and enjoy race weekends?”

Oscar frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean that every time I’ve seen you this season you’ve either been doing a sim session or you’re face first into a pile of data. I guess I’m worried that if you keep going like this for the rest of the year Oscar, you’ll burn yourself out quicker than it takes for you to realise. It’s even happening.”

Oscar pauses for a moment, staring at his hands. Lando’s comment catches him off guard. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He tries to think of something that sounds like an answer but all that comes to his mind is more driving.

“Uh…” He laughs under his breath awkwardly. “I don’t know.”

“Surely there’s something you enjoy doing. Everyone’s got a thing.”

Oscar hesitates then shrugs. “Guess I’m pretty boring.”

“I don’t buy that,” Lando says, tilting his head. “Come on, there’s got to be something you enjoy doing outside of the race paddock.”

Oscar fiddles with the zip of his laptop case, eyes on his hands. “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” he blurts out suddenly, as if the words escape before he can stop them.

Lando blinks, surprised. “What? Really?”

Oscar nods, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

Lando laughs softly. “You were just going to keep that to yourself?”

“Didn’t really seem worth mentioning.”

“Of course it’s worth mentioning.” Lando angles himself more towards Oscar on the couch, still smiling. “It’s your twentieth birthday Osc, that’s one to celebrate.”

Oscar feels his face flush at Lando calling him Osc again. “Yeah I guess, it kind of just feels like another day to be honest,” he shrugs.

“Nope,” Lando shakes his head. “A normal day for you is sim work and I’m not going to allow you to waste your twentieth birthday away on a simulator.”

Oscar chuckles. “You’ve got better plans?”

“I’ve got the best plans,” Lando states matter of fact, and already sounding far too pleased with himself. “You are spending the day with me tomorrow, no arguing.”

Oscar sighs but can’t hide the smile fighting to form on his face. “You sure McLaren will be fine with you spending the day with me?”

“I have a free day Osc, I don’t have any responsibilities until media on Thursday,” Lando responds. “Come on Oscar, say yes,” he all but pleads.

“Okay,” Oscar laughs.

“Yes!” Lando pumps his hand in victory. “Be ready by nine and wear something that isn’t your team kit.”

“Why do I get the feeling I won’t get any say in what happens tomorrow?”

“Because you won’t.” Lando grins, then gets us and starts backing toward the elevator. “Happy almost birthday Piastri.”

Oscar shakes his head, laughing quietly as Lando disappears behind the elevator doors. He looks down at his hands and then glances at the empty space Lando’s left behind. For the first time in a while he’s actually looking forward to his birthday.

…

The next morning dawns bright and clear, the city stretched out under the pale sky. The hum of traffic is distant, muffled by the chatter of people walking by.

Oscar’s waiting out the front by nine sharp, like he said he would. He’s in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, a navy blue half-zip jumper in his arms. He keeps checking his phone even though he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, maybe a text saying Lando’s cancelled, that the whole plan was just a late night joke.

But then Lando appears through the crowd, hands in his hoodie pockets, grin wide and easy as ever. “Piastri!” he says loudly and full of excitement. “Happy Birthday!”

Oscar's slightly embarrassed as a few heads turn to look at them. “Thank you.”

“And you actually showed up, I’m so proud.”

“You told me I didn’t have a choice,” Oscar replies.

Lando nods approvingly before gesturing down the street. “Come on. We’ve got a lot to do.”

They start with breakfast at a tiny café tucked between office buildings, one of those places you’d miss if you blinked walking past. The barista recognises Lando instantly, even behind the sunglasses and hoodie, and smiles conspiratorially as she hands him two menus. The place smells like roasted beans and sugar, a low hum of jazz music filling the space.

Lando slides one menu toward Oscar. “You’re about to witness greatness. This place has the best coffee in Japan.”

Oscar scans the menu, brow furrowing. “I don’t really like coffee.”

Lando looks personally offended. “What do you mean you don’t like coffee?”

“I just don’t,” Oscar says, shrugging. “I never have, tastes like burnt dirt.”

Lando gasps, hand over his heart. “You take that back.”

Oscar fights a smile. “Sorry. I do like a good hot chocolate though.”

“Hot chocolate,” Lando repeats slowly, like it’s a crime. “You’re from Melbourne, the city that proudly boasts they do the best coffee, and you choose a hot chocolate.”

“Sorry,” Oscar says with a smile.

“Fine. You get your hot chocolate but mark my words, I will get you to like coffee by the end of the season.”

Oscar shakes his head, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously correct,” Lando counters. “Fine, one coffee for me, and a glorified milkshake for you coming right up.”

Oscar gives Lando a look and can’t stop the quiet laugh that follows as his eyes track Lando’s movements as he gets up from the table and starts making his way to the counter to order.

When their drinks arrive, Lando quickly takes a sip of his coffee and sighs like it’s divine and looks across the table at Oscar. “You want to try some?”

Oscar shakes his head. “I already told you I’m not a fan of coffee.”

“But you’ve never had this coffee.” Lando pushes his mug halfway across the table, eyes glinting with challenge. “One sip, come on. For science.”

Oscar gives him a flat look. “For science?”

“Yeah,” Lando says. “How else are we supposed to run a fair comparison? You can’t form a hypothesis if you’ve never tasted the variable.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “You just wanted to say hypothesis.”

Lando grins. “Maybe.” He nudges the mug closer. “One sip. I promise it won’t kill you.”

Oscar sighs, mostly for effect, and leans forward to take a small sip. It’s hot, bitter, strong. He winces immediately.

“See?” Lando says, leaning in eagerly. “Not bad right?”

Oscar swallows, setting the mug back down carefully. “Still tastes like dirt.”

Lando gasps in exaggeration. “You have no soul.”

“I have taste buds,” Oscar says, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Wrong again,” Lando says, taking his coffee back. “But that’s okay. Not everyone can be cultured.”

Oscar hides his laugh behind his own mug. “Cultured?”

Lando leans back in his chair, pretending to be offended. "Yeah, some of us have refined palates thank you very much."

Oscar hums, unconvinced. "Right, because hot chips at midnight really scream refinement."

Lando grins, pointing a finger at him. "Hey, that's called balance. You wouldn't understand."

Oscar smirks, eyes flickering up to meet Lando's. "No, you're right. Clearly I'm out of my depth."

Lando's grin softens into something smaller, fonder. “And yet here you are, spending your birthday with me."

Oscar shakes his head but he’s smiling now, warmth spreading in his chest that has nothing to do with the hot drinks.

They linger longer than they mean to, talking about random things that don’t sound important but somehow are. Everything from favourite tracks to weird sponsor requests to how travel starts to mess with your sense of time. Lando does most of the talking, Oscar listens, content just to watch him come alive when he’s telling a story. The moment stretches comfortably, the chatter of the café washing around them. It feels easy, too easy. And that’s when the thought hits him, uninvited, sharp in its simplicity. It feels like a date.

He blinks down at his drink, startled by his own brain. It’s ridiculous. It’s not a date. It’s just Lando being Lando, friendly, loud, kind in that effortless way that makes everyone feel like they’re the only person in the room. Oscar tells himself again, firmer this time, but the word sticks anyway. Date.

After breakfast, they wander through the streets and narrow alleys strung with paper lanterns. Little shops selling everything from keychains to racing magazines. Lando insists on buying matching phone charms shaped like what Oscar is assuming is meant to be tiny helmets.

Oscar tips his head back with laughter when Lando holds one of the charms out to Oscar. “For you.”

Oscar takes it turning it around in his hand. “It’s interesting,” he laughs.

“You’re just jealous yours doesn’t look as cool as mine,” Lando says, already clipping his to his phone.

They stop at a video arcade next, drawn in by the noise and flashing lights. Lando’s like a kid, dragging Oscar from one machine to another, air hockey, driving sims, a claw machine that swallows coins with zero return.

When Lando actually wins a small plush bear, he turns and hands it to Oscar with an exaggerated bow.

“Seriously?” Oscar says, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah,” Lando nods. “Consider it a birthday present.”

Oscar laughs but the thought creeps back in, soft and unsteady, the thought that this feels like something more. The way Lando keeps walking close enough that their arms brush. The way Lando stops at crosswalks and waits for Oscar to catch up, smiling over his shoulder. The way he keeps saying things like ‘I told you you’d like this place’ or ‘I’m glad you came.’ It’s not a date, it’s not. But if it were, Oscar thinks this is exactly what it would feel like.

By mid afternoon, they’ve ended up in a quiet ramen shop down an alley lined with cherry trees. The petals scatter in the breeze, some sticking to Lando’s hair when he sits down. They eat in comfortable silence for a while before the conversation drifts, like it always does with Lando, effortless and unpredictable.

“So,” Lando says between mouthfuls, “any updates yet on your contract for after this year?”

Oscar shrugs. “No idea. Mark’s talking to teams, but nothing’s happening.”

“They’d be idiots not to take you,” Lando says, matter of fact.

Oscar looks at him. “You sound so sure.”

“I am sure,” Lando says. “You’ve got it. I’ve seen your sim data remember. You’re quick, like you see the race before it happens.”

Oscar doesn’t know what to do with that, so he looks down at his bowl. “Thanks.”

Lando tilts his head, studying him. “You’re not great at taking compliments, huh?”

“Not really.”

“Work on that,” Lando says lightly. Then, softer, “You should know what you’re worth.”

It sits between them, quiet but heavy. After a moment, Oscar sets his chopsticks down. “Do you ever get scared?”

Lando looks up. “Of what?”

“All of this, the F1 world. Of one day not being good enough and it all going away.”

Lando hesitates. “Yeah. All the time. I mean, yeah, I’ve got trophies, but that doesn’t mean that fear stops. It’s always there honestly. I still get nervous before every race.”

Oscar gives a small, disbelieving smile. “You? Come on.”

“Dead serious. Every race weekend just resets the fear. Sometimes I can’t get out of my own head before races and automatically start thinking of all the worst case scenarios, wondering when it’ll go wrong again.”

They sit with that for a moment, the hum of conversation around them fading into background noise.

“I worry that if I ever get my shot,” Oscar admits quietly, “I’ll be slower. That I’ll have forgotten how to race properly. That everyone else will be so much faster than me.”

“You won’t have,” Lando says immediately.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Lando’s tone is steady, sure. “You don’t lose it. You don’t forget how to want it. It just gets buried under everything else.”

Oscar exhales. “I just want to drive again. Properly. Fast.”

Lando’s mouth curls into a grin, slow and deliberate. “Come on then,” he says as he pushes himself up from the table.

Oscar frowns. “What?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

…

An hour later, Oscar is sitting in the passenger seat of the McLaren Lando’s been gifted for the week. Oscar stares out the window as the city falls away behind them, a flicker of anticipation in his chest. Lando’s at the wheel, sunglasses on, humming softly to a song playing low through the speakers. Oscar doesn’t want to assume anything, but there’s something about the way Lando keeps glancing over, each time with a knowing smile, that’s making Oscar’s stomach bubble with nerves and excitement.

When they crest a hill and Oscar sees an old-school race circuit come into view, his breath catches. The track curls through the landscape in perfect lines of tarmac, framed by the faint haze of late afternoon light. There are garages lined in silver, a small grandstand, and a control tower with mirrored glass catching the sun.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Oscar says, his voice somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Lando grins, easing the car through the open gate. “Told you I had an idea.”

“This is…” Oscar trails off. Words feel too small.

“Happy birthday,” Lando says, throwing the car into park. “You said you wanted to drive fast. Well… here you can.”

A security guard waves them through after a short exchange in Japanese. The place is quiet, empty except for a few staff members who recognise Lando immediately. He greets them in broken Japanese, casual and confident, before turning back to Oscar with the kind of grin that makes resistance pointless.

Inside, they pass a small showroom full of cars, GT3s, touring cars, single seaters. Polished metal glints under the fluorescent lights.

Lando gestures grandly. “Birthday boy’s choice.”

Oscar stares at him. “You can’t be serious.”

Lando spreads his hands. “Completely serious. I’ve done some promo stuff here. They owe me a few favours. Pick one.”

Oscar walks slowly down the row, eyes moving over the cars. There’s a blue GT3 tucked into the corner, older, scuffed around the edges, but beautiful. Oscar runs his hand along the car’s curve, the cool metal under his fingertips grounding him in a way nothing else has in months. It’s not a Formula 1 car, but it doesn’t matter, the lines, the smell, the quiet pulse of potential are all the same. “This one.”

Lando nods approvingly. “Good eye. Proper driver’s car.”

He looks up at Lando. “You sure this is okay?”

Lando smirks. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if it wasn’t.”

Lando informs the mechanics of Oscar’s choice, and they walk into a room off to the side to allow the small team of staff to start prepping the car. Lando disappears briefly, then returns with a race suit and helmet.

He tosses them both to Oscar. “Here.”

Oscar moves into the changeroom and gets into the race suit. He’s fitting the helmet over his head as he walks out but the strap hangs loose. Lando steps forward without a word, adjusting it for him. His fingers brush Oscar’s jaw as he tightens the buckle, gentle and sure.

“Too loose,” Lando murmurs, then meets Oscar’s eyes and smiles. “There, perfect.”

Oscar nods, suddenly aware of the lack of space between them. The scent of Lando’s cologne lingers, faint and clean.

Lando steps back and gestures to the car. “Go make some noise.”

The cockpit wraps around him like memory, the seat snug, the faint tang of fuel, the vibration of potential under his hands. The engine roars to life the second Oscar starts the car. It’s loud, raw, alive, a heartbeat made of pistons and fuel. He rolls out of the garage, tyres crunching softly over the pit lane, and for a split second he forgets how to breathe.

The track stretches out in front of him, open and waiting. The first lap is slow. He learns the corners, smooth entries, feeling the grip, the weight. The second is quicker. Third gear, then fourth, flick of the wrist through the chicane. By the third lap, it clicks.

Everything he’s been holding in, the frustration, the waiting, the hollow ache of not racing, it all burns away in the rush of movement. The car vibrates through him, the world narrowing to rhythm and instinct. Throttle, brake, apex, accelerate. The line between thought and reaction blurs until there isn’t one.

He’s laughing before he even realises it, breathless through the helmet mic, because it feels good, really good. For the first time in months, he feels like himself again. Not the reserve driver, not the afterthought. Just Oscar Piastri, driving the way he was born to.

He pushes harder, tyres screeching as he flies through the straight. The car hums like a living thing, the kind of sound that fills your bones. He hits the braking zone perfectly, the rear twitching just enough to make his pulse spike, and god, he’s missed this. Oscar pushes harder just to hear the engine sing.

When he passes the pit wall, Lando’s standing there, hands on the rail, grinning so wide it almost hurts to look at. Lando throws him a thumbs up, shouting something Oscar can’t hear over the engine but somehow feels anyway.

He loses track of time and the lap count before finally easing back toward the pits. When he finally slows and brings the car back in, the silence hits harder than he expects. His hands are shaking, adrenaline buzzing through every vein. He peels off the helmet and steps out, air cool against his flushed face.

Lando’s there immediately, beaming and eyes bright. “Well?”

Oscar can’t stop smiling. “That was incredible.”

“I told you,” Lando says, grin widening. “You haven’t lost it.”

Oscar shakes his head, breathless. “I needed that. It felt, I don’t know, like I was breathing again.”

“That’s the thing about driving,” Lando says quietly. “You don’t realise how much you miss it until you stop.”

Oscar looks at him, words caught somewhere behind his throat. “Thank you. Seriously. You didn’t have to do this.”

Lando shrugs, but his smile softens. “I know. I wanted to.”

They walk over to the pit wall together. The sun’s dropping low now, painting the asphalt in streaks of orange and gold. Lando hands him a water bottle, then hops up to sit on the wall, patting the spot beside him for Oscar to follow. For a while, they just sit there, legs dangling, the track spread out before them. The world feels still again, the faint sound of the cooling car in the background as the sun slides lower over the track.

Oscar turns to Lando, noticing the way the light catches in his curls. There’s a calm that settles between them, quiet and easy. “You ever think about what comes next?” Oscar asks softly.

Lando hums. “All the time.”

“And?”

“I try not to plan too much,” Lando says. “Things change. People change. But moments like this, these are the ones that stick.”

Oscar nods, gaze drifting back to the track. “I think I needed this more than I realised.”

Lando bumps his shoulder lightly. “I know you did.”

There’s a long silence, comfortable and filled with the sound of the wind cutting across the tarmac.

Oscar smiles, small but real. “Best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Lando looks over, eyes warm. “Get used to it.”

Oscar laughs under his breath. “That a promise?”

“Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

The sun slips behind the trees then, leaving them bathed in the soft afterglow of dusk. Oscar feels lighter, not fixed, but something close to it. Like he’s finally remembering what it feels like to want something for himself again. He looks at the empty circuit, at Lando beside him, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s not as far from where he’s supposed to be as he thought.

Chapter Text

The Bahrain sun is already punishing, even this early in the morning. Heat radiates off the asphalt in shimmering waves, settling into every inch of the paddock like it plans to stay there forever. The air smells of fuel and sunscreen and something metallic, the kind of scent that clings to the back of your throat long after you’ve gone home.

Oscar wipes his palms on his Alpine team polo and squints as he steps out from the cool shade of the hospitality suite. It’s Sunday, race day, and there’s a hum in the air that only builds as the hours crawl toward lights out. Mechanics scurry between garages, fans hover at the fences, camera crews set up their gear like it’s all part of a symphony.

He starts walking, nodding at the familiar faces from other teams as he makes his way through the paddock. Most people are busy enough not to notice him. A few do a double take, the kind that lasts just long enough for recognition to flicker across their faces before they move on.

He passes Red Bull’s hospitality first, loud music, laughter, energy. Then Ferrari, all efficiency and order.

Then McLaren. The sound hits him first. Laughter, easy and unguarded. It carries over the noise of tyre guns and air compressors coming from the garages in the distance. He looks over almost instinctively and spots Lando sitting at one of the outside tables. He’s surrounded by a handful of mechanics and engineers. They’re squeezed around a flimsy plastic table that looks like it’s only seconds from collapsing under the weight, a deck of cards spread between half-empty coffee cups and a plate of biscuits.

Lando’s cap is backwards, curls poking out underneath, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. His grin is bright and effortless. He looks happy. Confident. Entirely at ease in a world that sometimes feels like it’s constantly shifting under Oscar’s feet.

Oscar’s halfway past when Lando’s voice cuts through the air. “Oi! Piastri!”

Oscar stops and turns before he can decide not to. Lando’s waving, one hand still holding his cards. “You want to join us?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

Lando gestures at the table. “Cards. We’re short one player. Unless you’re allergic to fun.” The McLaren mechanics chuckle.

Oscar’s mouth twitches. He hesitates, glancing back toward the Alpine garage. There’s nothing waiting for him there, not yet anyway. Just a long stretch of time before the pre-race debrief, and the dull ache of sitting still while everyone else moves.

“Come on,” Lando says, grin widening. “You scared?”

“I’m not scared,” Oscar says, stepping closer.

“That’s what they all say.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright. Deal me in.”

Lando grins like he’s just won something already. “Good man.”

The table shifts to make room for him, someone handing him a drink, another shuffling a fresh deck. The cards are sticky from the heat, edges slightly warped.

Oscar sits beside Lando, trying not to look too out of place. The group is easy together, teasing, quick with jokes, comfortable in a way that comes from countless hours spent together in garages, airports and cramped hotels.

“Don’t worry,” one of the engineers says, smirking. “We’ll go easy on you. Rookie advantage.”

Oscar lifts an eyebrow. “You say that now.”

Lando laughs, tossing a biscuit at the engineer. “I reckon he’s got a mean poker face so don’t underestimate him.”

“Has he played before?”

Lando glances at Oscar. “Have you?”

“Once or twice.”

“That’s all it takes,” Lando says, smirking. “Confidence is half the game.”

The first few rounds are chaotic, full of half serious trash talk and exaggerated groans of betrayal whenever someone folds. Lando’s terrible at keeping quiet, he narrates every hand he’s proud of, complains about every bad draw, and somehow still wins half the time.

Oscar doesn’t realise how much he’s laughing until he catches himself mid-smile. The sound feels strange in his throat, unfamiliar, light.

Lando nudges him with his elbow. “You’re having fun. Admit it.”

“Maybe a little,” Oscar says.

“Tragic. I’ll take it.”

They keep playing, and after a while the rhythm settles. The mechanics talk about everything and nothing, weekend heat, dodgy hotel breakfasts, how one of them once met Shaquille O’Neal in an elevator. Lando keeps the jokes coming, his quick wit turning even the dullest topic into something worth laughing about.

Oscar mostly listens, chipping in when the moment feels right. It’s easy, easier than he expected. The group treats him like one of their own, not like the outsider who spends more time in the sim room than on track.

The longer it goes, the more relaxed everyone becomes. Someone fetches water bottles, another plays music quietly from their phone. The conversation drifts to racing stories, inevitable in a crowd like this.

“Alright, Piastri,” one of the mechanics says, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got to tell us, what was your best race?”

Oscar hesitates, shuffling his cards. “In juniors?”

“Obviously,” Lando says. “Unless you’ve been hiding wins from us.”

Oscar huffs a laugh. “Barcelona, probably. F2. Everything that could’ve gone wrong in qualifying did. Started tenth, finished first.”

“No way,” one of the engineers says. “How?”

“Strategy,” Oscar says simply. “And luck.”

“Luck my arse,” Lando says, smiling. “He made a triple overtake on the restart. The videos still do rounds on Twitter sometimes.”

Oscar looks at him, caught off guard. “You’ve seen those?”

Lando freezes, his grin faltering. “Uh, maybe? It might’ve come up on my feed or something.”

One of the mechanics grins. “Mate, did you just admit to watching Oscar’s F2 highlights?”

“Shut up,” Lando mutters, ears going red. “I was… researching.”

“Researching,” Another of the mechanics echoes dryly.

Oscar feels his own face start to flush as he watches Lando squirm in his seat. “You watched my highlights?”

Lando throws down his cards. “Don’t make it sound weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Oscar tilts his head towards Lando, a small smile playing at his mouth. “Just… unexpected.”

“Good unexpected?”

“Yeah.”

The others are still snickering but the focus shifts as quickly as it arrived, the teasing fading into another story. Still the moment lingers, that tiny crack in Lando’s easy composure, the blush creeping to his ears, the way he keeps avoiding Oscar’s gaze. Oscar tucks the memory away. Quietly he likes it, the thought that Lando had made a conscious decision to search and watch his races.

The game wears on, Lando wins another round, throws his arms up in victory, and then immediately drops a card.

“Cheater,” one of the engineers mutters.

Lando gasps. “You take that back.”

“You definitely peeked.”

“I don’t need to peek. I’m just better,” Lando jokes, puffing out his chest with effect. Oscar shakes his head, half laughing, half exasperated. Lando glances over then, his smile softer now. “I’m glad you joined us Osc.”

Oscar meets his gaze. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lando says simply. “This lot needed someone to class up the joint.”

It’s a joke, but there’s something behind it, something genuine that makes Oscar’s chest tighten before he can stop it. He looks away, shuffling his cards, pretending to focus on the next round.

The sun climbs higher, the paddock hum thickens, and the distant thud of pit guns punctuates the air like a metronome. Someone brings more water bottles, another returns with a packet of crisps, and the cards keep circulating between bursts of laughter.

The longer Oscar sits there, the easier it becomes to loosen the tightness in his chest. The McLaren staff are sharp and teasing, but never cruel. Lando keeps the tempo up, eyes flicking between the cards and the people around him. He’s magnetic in this environment, bright, quick, every line of conversation passing through him like static. And yet, every so often, his gaze slides back to Oscar, as if checking he’s still there. It’s subtle, easy to miss, but Oscar notices, he always does.

At some point between hands, one of the mechanics leans back and says, “So, Oscar, when did you start racing anyway?”

Oscar looks up, caught off guard. “Uh, I was about 9 when I started karting. But I started in remote control cars first. I think I was six when Dad brought me my first one.”

“Six?” another says, eyes wide. “That’s insane. How did six year old Oscar go at that?”

“Crashed a lot,” Oscar says dryly, and the table bursts into laughter.

Lando grins. “Good to know you’re not perfect at everything.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but continues, a small smile forming. “I won a national title when I was nine. Some people at the track told my Dad about karting and I started not long after that. I was living in Melbourne back then. I crashed in my first race. I don’t think any of us really expected it to turn into… this.” He gestures loosely toward the paddock.

“You moved to the UK pretty young, didn’t you?” Lando asks, shuffling the deck again.

“Yeah. Twelve. Boarding school and then racing on weekends.”

“Hard?”

Oscar shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that says yes. “A bit. But it was what I wanted.”

“Still,” Lando says, his tone quieting. “Twelve’s young to leave home.”

Oscar meets his eyes for a second and then looks back at his cards. “Dad came with me for a bit, but you do what you have to.”

There’s a pause, not uncomfortable, just thoughtful, before one of the engineers chimes in. “What was your first big win?”

“F4,” Oscar says. “At Oulton Park. It was my maiden win, and everything finally clicked that weekend. I remember thinking, alright, maybe I can actually do this.”

Lando smiles. “I saw that one too. You beat half the field by, what, five seconds?”

Oscar laughs. “Five and a half.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Lando says, hand over his chest. “Didn’t mean to rob you of your glory.”

The table chuckles again at Lando admitting he watched more of Oscar’s highlights, but something about the exchange lands differently for Oscar. He hadn’t realised Lando was even aware of that race. It wasn’t exactly headline news. He studies him for a moment, the casual ease, the way Lando says it like it’s just a fact. Not an exaggeration, not flattery. Just memory.

The stories start flowing easier after that. Someone asks about the weirdest track he’s raced on, and he tells them about a weekend in Spain where a stray dog ran across the circuit mid-qualifying. Another asks if he’s ever had a car catch fire, and he admits to a small electrical fire during testing that left his gloves half melted.

Lando’s laughing the hardest, his face bright and unguarded. Every time Oscar finishes a story, Lando adds some absurd one of his own, about George almost flipping a kart, about Yuki’s road rage, about a drunk sponsor who mistook his race engineer for a fan. It’s easy and ridiculous and so completely ordinary that Oscar almost forgets where he is.

Then one of the engineers asks, “You miss it? Actually racing, I mean.”

The question stills him. He doesn’t even look up from his cards. “Every day,” he says finally.

The words hang there for a second, soft but heavy enough to shift the air. Lando’s the one who breaks it, voice light but not mocking. “It’s only a matter of time.” Oscar glances at him but doesn’t say anything. There’s a quiet beat after that, one that feels strangely intimate even in the middle of a noisy paddock.

Oscar catches himself smiling again. For the first time in what feels like months, he isn’t thinking about contracts or test sessions or where he’s supposed to be next. He’s just… here. Laughing, talking, surrounded by people who remember that racing is supposed to be fun. And maybe that’s what he’s missed most, not the podiums or the spotlight, but the feeling of belonging somewhere, even temporarily.

He glances at Lando, who’s pretending to hide a smirk behind his cards. “You’re cheating,” Oscar says.

“Always accuse the winner,” Lando says, deadpan.

“Maybe I just see patterns.”

Lando leans back in his chair, grin lazy. “Then you’ll fit right in here.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of warmth in his chest he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

Lando fans out his latest cards with a dramatic sigh. “I swear, the universe is punishing me for being too good looking.”

“More like for bluffing too much,” one of the engineers says, flicking a card into the middle pile.

Oscar smirks. “You can’t win most rounds and still call it bluffing.”

“Watch me,” Lando says, throwing his cards down anyway. “Fold. With dignity.”

The table erupts in laughter, and the conversation shifts easily into more teasing. A few mechanics peel away to start setting up for the race, others hover nearby to watch. The warmth of it all lingers, the kind that seeps through the exhaustion and the nerves and makes the morning feel almost normal.

Then the glass doors behind them slide open with a soft hiss, and the laughter dips automatically. Zak Brown steps out, phone in one hand, sunglasses perched on his head. Even relaxed, he carries that air of authority that makes people straighten up without realising it. He pauses when he spots the table, a faint smile curving his mouth.

“Playing cards on race day?” he asks, half amused. “Is this what I’m paying you lot for?”

“Team bonding,” Lando says instantly, grinning. “Very important part of pre-race preparation.”

Zak chuckles, tucking his phone into his pocket. “I can see that.” His gaze shifts, landing on Oscar. “And who’s this?”

Before Oscar can answer, Lando jumps in. “Oscar Piastri. You’ve heard the name, right?”

Zak extends a hand, friendly but measured. “Of course. Good to meet you properly.”

Oscar stands quickly and shakes it. “You too, sir.”

Lando leans back in his chair, grin widening. “Future world champion. You should keep an eye on him.”

Oscar stares at him, startled. The words land heavier than the joke Lando’s pretending they are.

Zak raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “That right?”

“Absolutely,” Lando says, no hesitation now. “Osc’s got proper race craft. Smooth under pressure. Knows how to think a few corners ahead. If Alpine don’t realise what they’ve got, someone else should,” Lando finishes, a pointed look in his eyes, his gaze directed at Zak.

The engineers murmur their agreement, half joking but half serious, and Oscar’s ears burn under the sudden attention. He tries to play it off, the corner of his mouth twitching into a modest smile.

Zak studies him for a moment, the faintest spark of interest in his eyes. “What is Alpine planning to do with you, anyway?”

Oscar hesitates. He could give the polished PR answer, but there’s something about the directness of the question, and the fact that Lando is watching him with quiet expectation, that makes him want to be honest.

“Honestly?” he says. “I don’t know. Nothing’s been said yet.”

Zak nods slowly, lips pressing together. “Seems like a waste to keep you parked on a simulator.”

Across the table, Lando mutters, “Told you they’re stupid,” loud enough for everyone to hear.

Zak chuckles again. “Careful, Norris, we don’t need you starting any paddock wars.”

“Too late,” Lando says lightly, though there’s a thread of sincerity running beneath it.

Zak shakes his head, smiling as he turns back toward the doors. “Well, good luck today, gentlemen. Try not to lose all your money before lights out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lando calls after him.

The moment the door closes behind Zak, the table exhales collectively. Someone whistles. “You’ve got guts, Norris.”

Lando shrugs, shuffling the deck again. “What? It’s true.”

Oscar sits back down, still feeling the heat in his face. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“I wanted to,” Lando says, looking up briefly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Oscar fidgets with the edge of his cards, the easy rhythm of the game slipping for the first time. “You made it sound like I’m something I’m not.”

Lando tilts his head, studying him. “I said you’re a world champion waiting to happen. You saying that’s not true?”

Oscar opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He’s so used to deflecting compliments, to shrinking the edges of himself down to fit the shape of “reserve driver,” that hearing someone say it so plainly feels foreign.

Lando doesn’t look away. “You don’t believe me,” he says, more observation than accusation.

“It’s not that,” Oscar murmurs. “I just… try not to think about it much anymore.”

“Maybe you should.” There’s no teasing now, just quiet conviction. “You know what your problem is, Piastri?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got a list?”

“Probably,” Lando admits, grin returning. “But top of it is that you still think you need someone’s permission to take up space.”

Oscar blinks, thrown off balance by how blunt that sounds. “That’s… not exactly fair.”

“Maybe,” Lando says, shuffling the deck again, casual as ever. “But it’s true.”

Oscar doesn’t respond, unsure if he can. He just watches as Lando deals the next hand, the corners of the cards tapping against the table in a steady rhythm.

When Lando glances up again, the grin is back, lighter now. “Come on, future champion. You in for another round or what?”

Oscar exhales slowly, a small, reluctant smile breaking through. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrible at poker,” Lando says, laughing as he tosses him a card. “But we can’t all be perfect.”

Oscar laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Arrogant.”

“Confident,” Lando corrects. “You should try it sometime.”

And somehow, that’s exactly what Oscar does, not in words, not in posture, but in the quiet ease that settles over him as they keep playing. For the first time in months, he doesn’t feel like the reserve driver stuck behind glass. He feels like a racer again, like himself.

…

By the time the grid fills, and the cars are lined up ready for lights out, the paddock feels like a living organism, heat and noise and energy pulsing through every corridor. The air smells of burnt rubber and hot tarmac, that particular scent that only exists on race days, equal parts adrenaline and exhaustion.

Oscar stands just outside Alpine’s garage, headset slung around his neck, the glare from the track making him squint. The roar of the formation lap rattles through his chest as the cars weave past, engines screaming, bright liveries flashing under the lights lighting the track.

He’s done this routine dozens of times by now. Watch. Listen. Record. Learn. The steps are always the same, but today, something in him won’t settle.

Lando’s starting from pole again. The timing screens above the pit wall flicker with colour coded names, his sitting confidently at the top. McLaren’s garage across the way hums with purpose, calm, organised, sharp in every motion. There’s an electricity in their air that you can almost taste, that belief that today might be another perfect day. Oscar feels it too, even though it has nothing to do with him.

The lights go out, and the sound hits, that gut deep rumble that makes the ground tremble beneath his feet. The first few laps blur together in a wash of noise and data streams. He watches, notes lines, listens to engineer chatter, marks down Lando’s sectors almost unconsciously. It’s second nature now, the way he absorbs details.

He misses it. He misses the chaos, the motion, the blur of corners and braking zones. The world narrowing down to a single point of focus. He misses feeling like his body and the car are one thing, not separate.

The longer the race goes, the more obvious it becomes, Lando is untouchable. The McLaren’s rhythm is clean and unbroken, smooth in traffic, unstoppable in clear air. Each sector time flashes purple on the screens, and the McLaren garage down the pit lane erupts every time.

Oscar catches himself smiling every now and then, despite the sting that comes with it. It’s impossible not to admire how fluid it all looks.

“McLaren’s got a monster of a setup this weekend,” one of Alpine’s engineers mutters, half to himself. Oscar hums in agreement, eyes on the screen.

By the final stint, there’s no question who’s taking the flag. The only drama left is who’s fighting for second. Lando’s voice crackles faintly through the team radio, confident, light, but focused. The kind of voice you can tell is smiling.

When the chequered flag drops, McLaren’s garage erupts in a roar so loud it drowns everything else out. The sound carries down the pit lane, clapping, shouting, and voices spilling together. The sort of celebration that can only come from victory earned. Oscar claps too, quietly, the headset forgotten around his neck.

On the monitors, he watches Lando take the final cool down lap. The onboard camera catches him raising a hand to the crowd, the lights glinting off his helmet. When he pulls into parc fermé, payaya orange shirts flood the track. Mechanics pound on his car, hugging, shouting. Lando jumps out, tears his helmet off, and grins like he’s made of light.

Oscar can’t help it, he smiles. Wide and real and a little bit painful. He remembers the first time he felt that high, the sound of his own name shouted through a radio, his engineer yelling “yes, yes, yes” into his ears. For a heartbeat, he can almost taste it again.

He stays where he is for a while, leaning against the garage frame as chaos ripples around him. Interviews start, cameras swarm, other teams pack up. Through the crowd, he catches glimpses of Lando, helmet still in hand, drenched in champagne, hair sticking to his forehead. Reporters jostle for position. Fans scream his name from the barriers. He’s smiling for everyone, talking easily, his eyes crinkling in that familiar way. Oscar watches from a distance, just outside the blur of attention.

There’s a strange sort of pride there, sharp and unspoken. He’s happy for him, he really is. But the longer he stands there, the harder it gets to ignore the twist in his chest. It’s not jealousy exactly. It’s something quieter, heavier. A kind of longing for that feeling, for belonging, maybe even for the way Lando makes this all look easy.

Someone from Alpine calls his name, breaking through his thoughts. “Oscar, we need you for debrief.”

He nods, pushing off the wall. As he turns, movement catches his eye. Across the lane, just beyond the cameras, Lando glances up, searching the crowd, scanning faces. Their eyes meet for a split second. It’s brief, barely there, but it’s enough. Lando’s grin softens, and he lifts a hand in a quick wave, a flash of orange against the glare. Oscar’s hand moves automatically, waving back before he can think. It’s small, hidden by the shadows of the garage, but Lando sees it. He knows he does.

Then an engineer touches his shoulder, and the moment breaks. Oscar follows him into the Alpine suite, the noise of the paddock fading behind the sliding doors. Inside, it’s quieter, just the hum of cooling fans and the rustle of data printouts. He slips his headset on, sits down, and forces his focus back to where it’s supposed to be.

…

That night, lying in his hotel bed, Oscar scrolls through social media out of habit. Every feed is flooded with papaya orange, photos, clips, headlines, ‘Norris Dominates Again. Three Wins from Four. McLaren’s Title Run Begins.’

There’s one photo that stops him, a candid shot of Lando mid-celebration, champagne spraying from the bottle, his smile bright enough to make the rest of the frame look dull. Someone’s captioned it ‘unstoppable.’ Oscar stares at it for longer than he should. Oscar’s not exactly sure what it is he’s suddenly feeling. It’s not envy, it’s something more complicated, admiration maybe mixed with something that creates a pit in Oscar’s stomach.

He locks his phone, turns off the light, and stares at the ceiling until the glow of the city outside fades into dawn.

…

The next Grand Prix in Saudi Arabia ends in dust and noise. The circuit in Jeddah is a blur of white concrete, floodlights, and endless corners that never seem to open up. Lando finishes fifth, his worst of the season so far, and even though he smiles through the cameras, Oscar can tell from the footage that it stings. Every driver hides disappointment differently, Lando hides his by talking more openly and loudly.

For Oscar, the weekend feels like living in a loop, early mornings, data meetings, simulator sessions that stretch late into the night. He knows every bump of that circuit now, every kerb and braking marker, even though he’s never actually driven it at speed.

When the final car is wheeled into freight crates and the garages begin to empty, relief rolls through the paddock. Another double-header done. Everyone’s exhausted, minds already half in transit, thinking about flights home and sleep.

The airport hums with that peculiar kind of tired energy, a mix of adrenaline crash and duty-free coffee. People in team gear clutter in every corner, orange, red, blue and green weaving together as mechanics and engineers drift between gates. The air-conditioning hums too cold against his sunburnt skin.

Oscar standing against a wall, backpack slung over one shoulder, boarding pass half folded in his hand. He’s travelling economy with the rest of the Alpine staff who are all currently wedged somewhere between a flight of Ferrari mechanics and a group of exhausted journalists.

He tells himself he doesn’t mind, that this is what he signed up for, the grind, the waiting, the miles that blur together. Still, there’s a small, sharp pang when he spots the McLaren contingent breezing through the priority gate a few rows ahead, their tags flashing Private Charter.

And then he sees Lando. He’s not hard to miss, even dressed down in a hoodie and joggers, curls hidden under a cap. He’s sitting in a lounge chair by the windows, legs stretched out, talking animatedly to Jon, his trainer. There’s a packet of crisps between them and two half finished coffees balanced precariously on a cardboard tray.

When Lando glances up, his eyes catch Oscar’s instantly. The grin that spreads across his face is unfiltered, immediate. He waves. “Osc!”

Half the lounge turns at the sound. Oscar flushes, lifting a small hand in acknowledgment before weaving through the crowd toward him.

Lando pushes himself upright as he approaches. “Didn’t think I’d see you. You heading home?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice.” Lando gestures to the seats across from him. “Come sit. We’ve got time before boarding.”

Oscar hesitates for a second, then sits. The seat is soft, the window behind him glowing with the first pale hint of sunrise. Lando’s energy feels different here, less performative, quieter, almost tired in a way that makes him seem more real.

“How’s the team?” Lando asks, tearing open the crisp packet again.

“Busy. Same as always.”

“Still running those endless sim blocks?”

Oscar nods. “Pretty much.”

“That’s brutal.” Lando tosses him the packet. “Here. Salt and vinegar. Good for the soul.”

Oscar laughs but takes a handful without fuss. They sit like that for a while, trading small talk about flights, food, the chaos of double-headers. Around them, the terminal starts to fill with light, travellers filtering through security. Somewhere over the PA, a voice drones gate numbers in English and Arabic. It’s calm, almost peaceful.

“You look tired,” Lando says softly.

Oscar glances at him, “So do you.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got trophies keeping me awake.”

Oscar snorts. “Ego.”

Lando grins, then lets it fade. “I mean it, though. If I’m correct in my assumption, you’ve been going non-stop since winter testing. You ever switch off?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe you should.”

Oscar shakes his head, smiling faintly. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I switch off.”

“When?”

“Whenever I can.” Lando shrugs, eyes glinting. “Why do you think I golf so much.”

Oscar laughs. “Not sure I’m cut out for golf.”

“You don’t have to be,” Lando responds. “You’ve just got to prioritise carving out time for yourself. Like now for example.”

Oscar looks out the window, watching the tarmac shimmer under the growing sun. “You’re sitting in an airport surrounded by your team.”

“Still counts.” Lando pauses, tone quieter now. “You know, you don’t always have to be the guy who’s on right?”

Oscar turns back to him. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Lando’s eyes meet his. “Then start small. Start giving yourself a break, take a day off every now and then. You don’t have to stop completely, just enough to take the pressure off yourself.”

Oscar doesn’t respond straight away. He wants to but there’s something about Lando’s voice, steady, unpretentious, that makes the words stick in his throat.

“I’m not sure I’ll be very good at that,” he says honestly.

Lando studies him for a moment, expression unreadable. “I know, but you’ll learn. Plus, you’ll have me to remind you.”

The boarding announcement comes soon after. McLaren staff start gathering their things, laughter rising again. Jon stands first, checking his watch, and Lando follows with a lazy stretch. The easy calm between them fractures slightly under the noise of movement.

Lando slings his backpack over one shoulder and looks back at Oscar.  “We’re heading out.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says.  “I should probably head to my gate.”

Lando nods, then hesitates. “Hey.” Oscar looks up. “We’ve got two weeks until the next race, let’s not disappear on each other again between races?”

It’s said like half a joke, half something else entirely. The kind of sentence that lands somewhere deep before Oscar can decide what to do with it.

He tries to keep his voice steady. “Oh, are you sure?”

Lando smirks. “Definitely.” He steps backward a few paces, still facing him. “So, text me when you’re back home.”

“I don’t have your number.”

Lando’s grin widens. “Exactly. So, let’s fix that.” Lando digs a Sharpie from his backpack, grabs a napkin from the seat beside him, and scribbles something down. “Don’t lose it,” he says when he hands it over.

Oscar tucks it into his pocket before he can overthink it. “I won’t.”

Lando smiles, softer now. “Good.”

Jon calls his name then, and just like that, the moment breaks. Lando waves once, two fingers lifted casually, and heads toward the private gate with the rest of his team. Oscar watches until the orange shirts disappear behind the glass.

The airport feels bigger after Lando’s gone. Louder, somehow emptier. Oscar checks his phone, finds his gate, and joins the slow moving queue for boarding. When the attendant scans his ticket, he glances once more toward the private terminal windows, half expecting to see Lando looking back. doesn’t. Still, the ghost of that grin lingers in his head, that easy, stupid, disarming grin that somehow makes everything around it feel lighter.

He finds his seat, stows his bag, and leans against the window as the engines spool up. The runway stretches ahead in perfect symmetry, the horizon already blurring with heat. As the plane lifts and Bahrain falls away, the napkin shifts in his pocket when he breathes, soft against his leg like a reminder.

To Oscar airplanes always feel suspended outside of time. The world below moves on, races finish, contracts shift, people sleep, but up here, it’s just the soft hum of engines and the endless sprawl of sky. Oscar sits by the window, hood up, the low cabin light washing everything in muted gold. Most of the Alpine staff are already asleep. The aisle glows with the occasional phone screen or the faint flicker from someone’s laptop. A flight attendant moves quietly through the rows, footsteps muffled by carpet.

He hasn’t been able to sleep. His brain won’t stop replaying the last few days. Lando laughing at the card table in Bahrain. The way he’d looked at him when Zak asked about his future. That quick wave from across the paddock after the win. And this morning, the grin at the airport, the napkin.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. The paper’s creased, the ink smudged where his thumb brushed over it earlier. Lando’s handwriting is every bit as chaotic as he’d expected, numbers looping into each other, letters uneven and hurried.

It shouldn’t mean much. It’s just a phone number. But somehow it feels heavier than that. He traces one of the digits absently with his thumb, watching the clouds blur past the window.

He’s not sure when he started expecting less, less from himself, less from other people. Maybe it was around the time he became “the reserve kid.” That title followed him everywhere, written in every caption and interview summary like a footnote. He stopped correcting people eventually because it didn’t change anything.

But then there’s Lando, breezing through all of that without hesitation. Calling him future world champion like it’s fact, like it’s already written somewhere just waiting to catch up. Oscar doesn’t know what to do with that kind of belief. It’s strange, comforting and terrifying all at once, to be seen that way again.

Oscar opens his phone, stares at the dark screen for a long moment before unlocking it. He types out Lando’s number carefully, double checking each digit from the napkin. His fingers hover over the message box. He could write something casual like ‘made it on the flight’ or something neutral like ‘thanks again for earlier.’ But every option feels too much or not enough. He locks the phone again before he can overthink it.

Instead, he sits in the quiet, listening to the low hum of air around the cabin, the occasional cough, the faint rustle of a blanket. He wonders if Lando’s awake on his flight too, if he’s scrolling through photos, texting Max, already thinking about the next race. Probably, Lando never really stops moving.

When the cabin lights flicker back on a few hours later, dawn spills through the windows, pale pink bleeding into orange, the curve of the horizon cutting cleanly across the sky. It’s quiet except for the low murmur of passengers waking, stretching, checking phones.

Oscar blinks against the light and feels something ease inside him. For the first time in months, he feels something that isn’t exhaustion or numb focus. It’s small, fragile, but alive, a spark of curiosity about what might still be possible. Maybe Lando’s right. Maybe it isn’t over.

Chapter Text

The week off in between Saudi Arabia and Miami quickly blurs for Oscar, stitched together by travel, sponsor calls, simulator sessions, and text messages with Lando that start to feel like a quiet routine.

It started simple, a ‘made it back safely’ from Oscar once he arrived back in England. The next day he got a photo from Lando of his breakfast captioned ‘10/10 presentation, 3/10 taste.’ Oscar replies with ‘that’s because you can’t cook’ and somehow that turns into an entire thread of back and forth banter. Food photos, memes from the paddock group chat, short voice notes that Lando claims are ‘urgent updates’ but are really just him talking nonsense on his drive home.

Sometimes the messages come late at night, blurry photos from Lando’s sim rig or the ceiling of his apartment, paired with ‘can’t sleep, are you awake?’ Oscar always answers, even if he’s tired, even if he tells himself he shouldn’t. It’s easy, familiar, addictive. He catches himself smiling at his phone more than he wants to admit.

The evening before he’s set to fly to Miami, he finally finds the time to video call home, his apartment lights dim behind him and his laptop propped up against a water glass on his coffee table. The second the call connects, the sounds of the Piastri household bursts through the speakers. His family are gathered around the kitchen table.

“Oscar!” Mae yells first, her face filling the frame until Edie shoves her aside.

“Move, I want to see!” Edie snaps, wrestling the phone.

“Mum, they’re fighting again,” Hattie calls from somewhere in the background, though Oscar can tell she’s grinning.

Oscar laughs, the sound soft but unguarded. “Hey guys.”

The screen steadies as Nicole leans in. “Hi darling. You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, though her knowing look makes him smile. “Just been busy.”

Nicole leans closer to the camera at one point, her expression softening. “How are you, really?”

“I’m okay,” Oscar says, meaning it, but there’s a weight behind his smile. “Just… figuring things out.”

She nods. “You always do.”

“That McLaren kid still beating you at cards?” Chris calls from somewhere off screen.

“What?” Oscar asks confused. “How did you know about that?”

“Ted’s Notebook was on, and the camera was showing you playing cards with the people from McLaren quite a lot.”

Hattie leans in, grinning wide. “You were smiling like a total idiot. We replayed it.”

“You replayed it?” Oscar groans.

“Yeah,” Edie says, smirking. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself, all flustered and giggly.”

“I was just being polite,” Oscar insists, though the heat creeping up his neck betrays him.

“Polite?” Mae repeats. “You were blushing.”

“I wasn’t blushing.”

Nicole chuckles softly. “You were a little pink, love.”

Oscar presses a hand over his face. “I hate all of you.”

“So,” Hattie grins. “You and Lando, are you two, like…”

“No,” Oscar says quickly. “We’re not, it’s not like that.”

“But you like him,” Mae says knowingly. “You have that face.”

“What face?”

“That face,” Edie points at him. “The one you get when you’re trying not to smile but you can’t help it.”

Oscar groans again, but he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Just observant,” Hattie says. “Anyway, he’s cute. You could do worse.”

Oscar shakes his head, still blushing. “I’m hanging up before this gets worse.”

“Too late,” Mae says, giggling. “Tell your boyfriend we said hi!”

“He’s not…” Oscar tries uselessly, his sister’s already moving on to new topics.

Oscar had come out to his family and told them he was gay when he was sixteen, voice shaking, sitting on the back porch one summer evening. It hadn’t been a grand speech, just the truth, small and scared and necessary. His Mum had pulled him into a hug before he could finish, and his Dad had simply said, “Okay, and?” with a grin. His sisters had demanded to know if that meant they could have a gay brother who dressed better and if they could talk about boys with him. It had been love, uncomplicated, the kind he still leans on.

His phone buzzes right then, Lando’s name lighting the screen, it’s a photo of his simulator screen showcasing a new track record with the caption ‘Winner! Let’s see you beat that Piastri.’

Mae gasps. “Oh my God, is that him?”

“No!” Oscar responds, too quickly.

Edie grins, snatching an apple from the fruit bowl in the middle of the Piastri table. “Oh it definitely is. You only smile like that when it’s someone,” she finishes emphasizing the ‘someone’.

Mae gasps dramatically. “Oh my god, Oscar’s in love.”

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not. Can you all stop?

“He’s blushing so much he looks sunburnt,” Hattie says through laugher.

Oscar groans, burying his face in his hands. “I hate you all.”

“No you don’t,” Mae singsongs. “You love us.”

“Regrettably,” he shakes his head but can’t help but notice he’s still smiling when he feels his phone buzz again.

After the teasing and laughter dies down, Nicole glances at Chris and there’s a silent exchange that Oscar knows too well, one that usually means they want to talk about something serious.

“Girls, can you give us a minute?” she asks gently.

There’s a round of groans and exaggerated sighs but eventually the sisters shuffle off, still giggling about Oscar’s boyfriend. When the kitchen door swings shut behind them, the tone shifts slightly, not cold, just softer.

Nicole leans closer to the camera, voice careful. “Sweetheart, I know you’re grown, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, but… just be mindful alright? You’re in a tough environment, and people will talk.”

Chris nods from beside her. “He seems like a good bloke, Lando. But just remember that in his world there are cameras everywhere, and everyone has an opinion.”

Oscar swallows, a small knot forming in his chest. “I know, but I promise it’s nothing like that,” he says quietly. “He’s just been… a good friend, that’s all.”

“We’re not saying he hasn’t,” Nicole says. “We just don’t want anyone taking advantage of how much you care about people. You’ve always led with trust. And Lando’s a lot older, more experienced than you. We just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Oscar nods, eyes flicking down. “I know, but I’m not a kid Mum. I know Lando’s older but he’s,” he pauses, swallowing. “He’s just a friend.”

His Dad’s voice softens. “We just worry, that’s all. Kind of comes with the job description of being parents.”

Nicole’s expression eases again, her tone returning to something lighter. “Alright, enough heavy talk. Go to bed, get some sleep. And maybe don’t blush on live TV next time.”

“Mum.”

She laughs, “Goodnight darling.”

“Night,” he says, and when the screen goes dark, he sits back for a long moment, warmed and weighed down all at once.

…

Miami arrives in a whirlwind of glamour, celebrities and chaos. It’s hot and it clings to the skin in a way that even the air conditioning can’t kill. The whole weekend has felt like that, loud, bright, exhausting, the kind of circus that reminds Oscar how far from home he really is.

He’s spent most of it inside the walls of the Alpine motorhome, simulator sessions in a cramped back room, sponsor appearances where he smiles until his cheeks hurt, and data meetings that blur into each other.

When Sunday comes, the track feels like it’s on fire. The tarmac shimmers under the sun, the air heavy with burnt rubber and adrenaline. And Lando, of course, thrives in it. He wins from fourth on the grid and he makes it look effortless, clean passes, calm pit stops, a perfect rhythm that turns into inevitability. By halfway through the race, he’s ten seconds clear of the car in second. By the end, thirty.

Oscar watches from the Alpine garage, the world reduced to telemetry, radio chatter and the faint echo of crowd noise bleeding through the walls. The McLaren garage explodes when Lando crosses the line, orange shirts flooding the pit wall, mechanics leaping into each other’s arms.

He claps, because it’s the right thing to do. Because it’s impressive, because it’s earned, because he can’t help but admire it.

He stays until the data download finishes, nods through the debrief, then slips out before the post race celebrations spill too far into the paddock. The McLaren garage is still alive with noise. He doesn’t linger, just slips through the back exist allowing the noise to fade behind him.

Halfway to the car park, his phone buzzes in his pocket. For a moment he thinks about ignoring it but then stops and pulls it out. It’s an email from Alpine but that’s not what catches his attention. There’s a notification below indicating a message from Lando. ‘Osc, celebrating tonight at E11even, please say you’ll come?’

Oscar hesitates for a second before he opens a new message. ‘Congrats on the win Lando. You were incredible out there today.’ He stares at the words for a few seconds before adding, ‘I can’t tonight sorry. My flights first thing in the morning.’ His thumb hovers over the send button. He feels a slight hint of guilt for saying no but then remembers that Lando is the one who has been telling him he needs to stand up for himself more, so he exhales and hits send anyway.

The reply comes quicker than he expects. ‘Nooooo, booooo!’ Follow up messages ping through in quick succession. ‘Sorry Max informed me that was rude. That’s okay, will suck not celebrating with you! If you change your mind you’re more than welcome to join.’ ‘Yes Max is reading my messages over my shoulder.’ And finally, ‘Thanks Osc. Means a lot. Hope you’re day wasn’t too brutal.’

Oscar smiles faintly at the screen, typing back before he can talk himself out of it. ‘Just long. You deserved the win.’

There’s a pause before Lando’s response comes through. ‘Thanks. Dinner on me soon?’

Oscar’s pulse jumps, though he tells himself it’s nothing. Just Lando being Lando, friendly and kind. ‘Sure,’ he writes back. ‘And yes, you’re definitely paying.’

Lando sends back a laughing emoji and a ‘deal’ before the typing bubbles vanish.

Oscar pockets his phone, the smile still tugging at his mouth as he heads toward the waiting car.

…

The next morning, Miami already feels like it’s emptying out as he walks through the airport terminal trying to find his gate. Oscar’s flight confirmation pings on his phone: Miami → Monaco, 32B, 8.40am. Middle seat. Long flight. Just him, his headphones, and a notebook full of things he’ll probably never say out loud.

He finds the terminal without fuss and is halfway through debating whether to buy a bottle of water that costs six dollars when he hears someone groan behind him. A familiar voice, raspy, wounded.

“Osc. Oh my god, can you please make everyone stop talking. Everything hurts.”

Oscar turns and finds Lando, a very visibly hungover Lando. He’s in a hoodie, sunglasses covering his eyes, curls damp from a shower. His face is pale, backpack hanging off one arm like it’s given up on gravity.

“You look like death,” Oscar says, trying not to smile.

“I am death,” Lando murmurs. “I think I died around 4am. The podium champagne reanimated me and then killed me again.”

“Right,” Oscar says mildly. “Normal night for you then.”

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to grin. He just stands there swaying, sunglasses still on indoors like a celebrity or a cautionary tale.

“I didn’t expect you to be at the airport this early in the morning considering your plans last night,” Oscar states.

“I wasn’t,” Lando grumbles. “But I’m flying with Verstappen on his jet and I completely forgot he changed his flight time so he could get back earlier after Kelly gave birth.”

Oscar goes to respond but is interrupted by his flight to Monaco being called out over the PA system. “That’s me,” he says to Lando.

“You flying to Monaco?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sponsor thing.”

“Did Alpine at least get you a good seat?”

Oscar hesitates. “Thirty two B.”

Lando looks appalled. “Middle seat?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s a war crime.” Lando sways slightly forward, Oscar instinctively reaching an arm out to stabilise him. “You can’t go from Miami to Monaco wedged between two strangers. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

Oscar laughs quietly. “I’ll survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” Lando pauses, scrunching his face up in thought. “Max’s got space on his jet. You’re coming with me.”

Oscar blinks. “I… what?”

“Come on,” Lando says, already pulling out his phone. “We’re leaving in an hour. I’ll tell Max to add you.”

“I can’t just… you can’t just invite me onto someone else’s plane.”

“Sure I can. I’m incredibly persuasive.”

Oscar shakes his head, incredulous. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“I don’t even have my stuff.”

Lando grins. “I’ll have Max ask the air hostess staff to sort it out.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point.” Lando stands, slinging his backpack back over one shoulder. “Come on, Piastri. You’ve done enough suffering for one season.”

Oscar looks up at him, half amused, half unsure. “You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Not from you.”

It comes out too easily, and something flickers between them before Lando smiles again casually as if he didn’t just say that.

Oscar sighs. “Fine.”

“Success,” Lando winces as his voice comes out louder than intended. “You’ll thank me later.”

The private terminal feels like a different world, quiet, expensive, and air conditioned to perfection. The staff greet Lando like they’ve known him forever, offering drinks and smiles. Oscar trails a step behind, still trying to decide if this is actually happening.

The jet itself is sleek and understated, Max’s brand logo barely visible under the silver paint. Inside, it’s all soft lighting and smooth leather, the faint scent of coffee and clean linen lingering in the air.

There’s already laughter coming from the cabin, Daniel Ricciardo’s unmistakable voice and Max Verstappen’s low reply, the muffled sound of music coming from the speakers.

Lando steps in first, gesturing for Oscar to follow. “Everyone, look who I rescued from coach,” he announces.

Daniel looks up immediately, grin wide. “Hey! Piastri!”

Oscar gives a small wave. “Hey Daniel.”

“About time you joined the big leagues,” Daniel says, standing to clap him on the shoulder. “Lando’s been talking about you for weeks.”

Lando shoots him a look. “Daniel.”

“What? You have.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “You have?”

Lando clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “Ignore him,” Lando turns to Daniel. “How do you know Oscar anyway?”

“Fellow Aussies mate,” Daniel jumps in.

Oscar nods at Lando’s raised brow. “Daniel used to come and watch some of my junior category races.”

“Huh,” is also Lando says in response.

Max glances up from his phone and nods a greeting at Oscar. “Max.”

“Oscar,” Oscar nods back. “Thanks for letting me fly with you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Max responds, tilting his head in Lando’s direction. “This one was not going to take no for an answer, he was basically nagging.”

Lando sputters, “I was not.”

“You were.”

“Anyway,” Lando draws out. “Who wants to…”

“I’m not playing cards with you,” Max cuts him off and then turns his attention to Oscar again. “Try not to let him talk you into playing cards. He cheats.”

“I don’t cheat,” Lando says, dropping into his seat. “I just win creatively.”

Daniel chuckles. “That’s one way to put it.”

There’s an open seat beside Lando and he gestures to it casually. “Sit here. Best view.”

Oscar slides in, the leather warm against his back. The hum of conversation surrounds him, comfortable, familiar, easy. He’s surprised by how quickly Daniel and Max start including him in their conversations. It’s effortless and something in Oscar’s chest flutters at the feeling of belonging again.

Someone pulls out monopoly, and within minutes, the table’s full again. Lando’s even more ridiculous at monopoly then he was at poker. He’s loud, dramatic, making faces whenever he lands on someone else’s properties. Daniel’s worse, laughing so hard he forgets to make people pay. Even Max softens, eyes crinkling every time someone calls Lando out for cheating.

Oscar doesn’t say much at first, but when he buys Mayfair giving him both navy blue properties, the chorus of groans feels like something he hasn’t had in a while. Inclusion, easy and unearned.

Lando leans close, voice low. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“It’s just luck.”

“Liar.”

“You’re just bad.”

“Watch it.”

Oscar smiles, small but real. “I’ll take my chances.”

Lando stares at him for a beat too long, then laughs, tossing another $100 towards Oscar. “You’re dangerous, Piastri.” The words make something twist in Oscar’s chest, not unpleasant, but sharp enough to notice.

As the jet levels out, the sky outside turns deep blue, the horizon stretching endlessly. Conversation drifts from racing to everything else, old karting stories, inside jokes about team radios, half remembered nights out.

At one point, when the laughter dies down, Lando starts talking about F2, about how crazy the calendar used to be, how brutal the travel was.

“I remember watching that Silverstone race you did,” he says suddenly, almost offhand. “You went around the outside in turn four, ridiculous move.”

Oscar freezes. “How many of my highlights did you watch?”

Lando blinks, caught. “Uh...”

Daniel perks up instantly. “Hold on, Lando was watching F2 highlights?”

Lando scowls. “It came up on my feed.”

“Sure it did,” Daniel teases. “Big fan of the juniors, are we?”

Lando’s ears go pink. “I was doing research, I told you that.”

Oscar tries not to laugh. “Research, still going with that huh?”

“On talent,” Lando says quickly. “You were fast. I just… wanted to see.”

That shouldn’t mean anything. But somehow, it does. Lando turns back to his cards, pretending to focus, but the edge of his smile gives him away. Oscar watches him for a moment longer before looking back at the table, that strange warmth still blooming quietly under his ribs.

When the lights dim a few hours later, the others start drifting off. Oscar sits back in his seat, legs stretched out, fingers fidgeting absently with the seam of his sleeve. Across from him, Daniel’s out cold, his mouth slightly open, a blanket tangled around one leg. Max has his headphones in, eyes closed, head tilted back against the seat.

It’s peaceful in a way the paddock never is. No buzz of radios, no endless background chatter, no cameras. Just quiet.

Lando’s still awake beside him, hoodie pulled halfway up, the faintest stubble catching in the low light. He’s flicking through something on his phone, the soft blue glow painting half his face. After a minute, he looks up and catches Oscar staring.

“What?” he asks, grinning.

Oscar shakes his head quickly. “Nothing.”

“Sure.” Lando locks his phone, stretching. “You’re bad at pretending you weren’t just staring me.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “I wasn’t.”

“Liar,” Lando laughs and then goes quiet for a moment after that, gaze drifting to the dark window. “I don’t really like flights,” he says suddenly.

Oscar glances at him. “You? You’re on one every week.”

“Exactly. Too much time to think.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” It’s said so simply that it catches Oscar off guard. “What about you?” Lando asks. “You like flying?”

“I don’t mind it,” Oscar says. “It’s quiet. No one expects anything from you.”

Lando hums. “Yeah. That part’s nice.”

The engines drone beneath their feet, steady and hypnotic. Oscar can feel the exhaustion start to pull at the edges of him, that dull, comfortable kind of tiredness that comes from a long day and too many thoughts.

Lando shifts in his seat, one knee drawn up. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you ever get homesick?” The question lands softly, but it lingers.

Oscar looks down at his hands. “Yeah I do. I miss Melbourne. The weather, the way it smells after it rains. My sisters being loud at breakfast.” He smiles faintly. “It’s weird what you end up missing.”

Lando watches him carefully, like he’s cataloguing every word. “Yeah. I get that.”

“You?”

“All the time,” Lando admits. “When I first moved away, I thought being homesick meant I wasn’t cut out for this. But it never really goes away. You just get better at hiding it.”

Oscar nods slowly. “I used to think that too.”

They fall into a comfortable quiet again, the kind that feels like it belongs only to them.

Then Oscar asks something that has been nagging him for a while, his voice softer now, “You ever doubt it? This job?”

Lando hesitates. “Doubt what?”

“That this is all worth it.”

The question sits between them for a beat, heavy but honest.

“Yeah,” Lando says quietly. “I do at times but then I get in the car again and remember why I do this. Not just for me but for my team, my family, my friends.”

“Yeah,” Oscar hums in thought.

Lando turns in his seat to look at Oscar. “What is it?”

Oscar looks back at him, something sharp and honest cutting through his exhaustion. “I don’t know if I know who I am without this.”

Lando’s gaze softens. “You’ll never have to find out.”

Oscar laughs under his breath. “You’re always so positive I’m gonna make it one day. What if I’m not? What if I never do?”

“You are,” Lando says, leaning back. “People like you don’t just fade out. You wait your turn, and when it comes, you’ll be ready.”

The simplicity of it makes Oscar’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Lando shrugs, smiling faintly. “Don’t thank me. I’m just stating facts.”

Minutes pass. The air hums with the white noise of the engines. One of the air hostess’ coughs a few rows back. Daniel mutters something incoherent in his sleep. Oscar feels the exhaustion hit all at once, not just from travel, but from the week, from the noise that never seems to stop in his head. Lando’s watching the window again, one hand draped loosely over the armrest between them. Oscar’s eyes grow heavier with every blink. He shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable, and before he realises what’s happening, his shoulder brushes Lando’s.

“Sorry,” he mumbles automatically, already half asleep.

Lando doesn’t move. “It’s fine.” His voice is soft, low, the kind of sound that settles somewhere in Oscar’s chest and refuses to leave.

Oscar gives up trying to stay upright. His head tilts sideways, finding a resting place against the curve of Lando’s hoodie. It’s warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t make sense.

He feels Lando still for a moment, then quietly exhale. His hand twitches once on the armrest, like he’s debating whether to move, then doesn’t. The cabin fades into quiet.

…

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out for, it could have been minutes or hours. When he wakes, it’s to the faint hum of the engines and the low vibration of voices. His cheek is pressed against someone warm. Solid and soft at the same time. It take’s him a second to realise he’d been using Lando’s shoulder as a pillow. Oscar braces himself for the awkwardness of waking up when soft voices make him pause.

“…it’s nothing, Max,” Lando’s saying softly.

Oscar doesn’t move. His eyes stay closed. His body knows better.

“I’m not saying it is,” Max replies, his voice lower, patient. “Just… be careful.”

There’s a pause, the soft rustle of clothes.

“Careful about what?” Lando asks.

“About him,” Max says plainly. “He’s nineteen. He’s… young. You’re friendly. Flirty. You know how people talk.”

Oscar’s stomach twists.

“Twenty,” Lando mumbles.

“What?” Max questions.

“He’s twenty now,” Lando clarifies. “It was his birthday a month ago.”

Oscar hears Max sigh and pictures an exasperated look on his face. “That doesn’t make a difference when you know what people will say.”

“People can talk all they want,” Lando says, but there’s an edge of defensiveness there.

Max sighs. “Mate, you know I don’t care. But others will. It won’t look good if it’s misread.”

“It’s not like that.”

“I know. Just… keep it clear, yeah? He seems like a good kid. You don’t want to string him along accidentally.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. For a long moment, there’s silence. Just the steady hum of the engines and his own heartbeat in his ears.

Then Lando says quietly, “I know, you’re right.”

The words land heavy, heavier than they should.

“Just… watch yourself,” Max adds, voice gentler now. “You’ve got a big spotlight on you. People forget you’re human.”

“Yeah,” Lando murmurs. “Got it.”

Their voices drift off after that, dissolving back into the hum of the plane. Oscar doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too deep. He just stays there, still pretending to be asleep, his head on Lando’s shoulder and the weight of those words pressing into his chest. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he’s overthinking. That this is all exactly what it should be, nothing more than just friends. But something in him aches anyway.

Lando shifts beside him a few minutes later, his shoulder brushing lightly against Oscar’s head again. It’s gentle. Almost cautious. Too cautious.

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut tighter, willing the exhaustion back, until the ache blurs into something quieter. Sleep pulls him under again, but this time, it doesn’t feel peaceful.

When he wakes again the second time, it’s to sunlight creeping through the window, the jet already flying over the Monaco coast on its decent into the Nice airport. The sea below sparkles like glass, all blues and silvers, yachts lined like chess pieces in the harbour.

Lando’s awake, leaning forward to talk to Daniel. His tone is light, casual, the grin firmly back in place. Whatever that conversation was, it’s already buried under that easy brightness he wears so well.

Oscar sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning,” Lando says, glancing over. “You snore.”

“I do not.”

“You definitely do.”

Oscar shakes his head, managing a tired smile. “You’re delusional.”

“Still true,” Lando says, grinning. “Welcome to Monaco.”

The city unfurls beneath them, golden in the morning light. For everyone else, it’s just another landing, another transition between races. For Oscar, it feels like the world has quietly shifted in ways he doesn’t quite understand. He looks out the window, watches the water catch the sunlight, and pretends he doesn’t still feel the echo of that conversation in his chest.

Chapter Text

The ballroom at the Hôtel de Paris is loud in the way only sponsor events can be, clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation, someone laughing a little too hard near the front where the cameras are. Everything gleams, the marble floors, the lighting, the ridiculous crystal centrepieces shaped like Alpine logos.

Oscar stands near the edge of the crowd, holding a glass of sparkling water that’s already gone flat. He tugs at the collar of his too small suit. He’d bought it a few years ago for the FIA awards after his second place in the Formula 3 championship. The fabric feels scratchy against his neck and he can already feel the beads of sweat trickle down his back. The jacket’s a fraction too tight across his shoulders and every time he moves his arms, he feels like he’s fighting it.

He’s never liked dressing up, normally sticking to team gear or a basic shorts and t-shirt combo. Anything more than that makes him feel like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. Everyone else around him looks natural. Pierre with his perfect tie and easy grin, Esteban with his hair combed flawlessly. Oscar fights the urge to keep picking his appearance apart.

The event’s technically a sponsor showcase with guests including executives, investors, a few journalists. But really it’s just a photo opportunity for people to boost their social media profiles. Oscar was standing with Pierre and Esteban whilst answering some journalists questions before he was asked to step aside so they could take photos with the “real drivers”. 

Oscar’s not even sure why he’s here, why Alpine made this a mandatory event for him to come to. “Visibility and representation” is what the team’s press manager had said earlier with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re part of the brand, Oscar. It’s important that our partners see you.”

He’s not naïve. He knows what that means, stand near the drivers, look approachable, say thank you when someone shakes your hand. Don’t make it about you.

He smiles when people point a camera his way, nods when introduced as “one of our promising young reserves.” It’s all polite, meaningless. He stands near the edge of the group, watching the others make small talk with the kind of ease he’s never had.

A team representative leads a few guests over, gesturing toward the big display car in the corner. “That’s our 2025 chassis prototype,” they say proudly. “And this here is Oscar Piastri, one of our up and coming drivers.”

One of the guests, an older man in a suit that probably costs more than Oscar’s first kart, looks him up and down. “Up and coming, you said? Is he in Formula 3?”

Oscar’s stomach tightens. The rep laughs politely. “Formula One, technically. He’s our reserve.”

The man blinks, surprised. “Oh. I see.” He gives Oscar a quick, perfunctory nod. “Good for you, son.”

Oscar manages a smile. “Thanks.”

As soon as they move on, he exhales through his nose and drains what’s left of his water. He knows it’s not personal. People forget reserves exist. They’re not meant to stand out. They’re the just in case drivers, the insurance policy, the almosts.

Still, the sting is there, small but sharp.

He checks the time on his phone, nearly ten. He’s been here three hours. Long enough to be seen, not long enough to be remembered. He’s about to make his escape when someone from marketing waves Oscar forward again. He sighs and steps closer just in time for a camera flash to go off. He blinks through the spots in his vision.

“Can you move slightly to the right, Oscar?” the photographer says, gesturing vaguely toward the background. “Perfect, just there, a little behind Esteban, thank you.”

Behind. He swallows it down.

When the photos wrap up, Esteban turns and gives him a polite smile. “Hey, mate. You good?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Just trying not to stand in anyone’s way.”

Esteban chuckles, handing his drink to a waiter. “You get used to it. These things are all the same. Talk to sponsors, smile, pretend the champagne isn’t terrible.”

Pierre joins them, his tie slightly loosened already. “At least the food’s decent this time. Monaco always gets the good catering.”

Oscar manages a small smile. “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t had any yet.”

Pierre gives him a look like he’s trying to work something out. “You need to grab some. They’ve got those little wagyu sliders in the back.”

“I’ll have to try some,” Oscar says quietly which seems to appease Pierre who nods just as a PR manager approaches, touching Pierre’s elbow.

“Pierre, we need you for a quick interview with Canal+.”

Pierre sighs good naturedly. “Duty calls. Don’t let him escape,” he says to Esteban before heading off.

Esteban turns back to Oscar, leaning one shoulder against the bar. “So, how’s the sim work been?”

“Good,” Oscar says, automatic. “Long hours. But it’s fine.”

“Long hours for not much driving,” Esteban says knowingly. “Frustrating, no?”

Oscar hesitates, unsure how honest to be. “A bit.”

Esteban nods, swirling the drink in his hand. “You’ve got talent, though. People know that. It’s just timing. Seats don’t open every year.”

Oscar nods, grateful but unconvinced. He’s heard it before, from engineers, commentators, family, hell even Lando. ‘Be patient. Your time will come’. But every year, the grid fills, and every year, he watches someone else get the call.

“You know,” Esteban says after a pause, lowering his voice, “between you and me, I might not be here next season.”

Oscar looks up, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing confirmed,” Esteban says quickly. “Just… there are talks. A few teams sniffing around. You never know where you might end up.”

Oscar tries not to sound too eager. “Like who?”

Esteban smirks. “You think I’m telling you that?”

“Worth a try.”

Esteban chuckles. “Point is, seats move. Things change. Keep doing what you’re doing, and when something opens, you’ll be ready.”

It’s a small thing, but it sparks something in Oscar’s chest, not quite hope, but close. A possibility.

Before he can say anything, one of the senior Alpine staffers approaches, smiling for the sponsors behind them. “Esteban, we need you for a photo with Renault’s CEO.”

Esteban pats Oscar’s shoulder. “Keep your head up, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” Oscar says.

He stays another half hour, making polite small talk with a few guests. At one point, a man from a major sponsor introduces himself, shaking Oscar’s hand firmly.

“So, you’re the reserve driver,” the man says, eyes flicking to Oscar’s badge. “That must be exciting, travelling the world, part of a Formula One team.”

“It’s good experience,” Oscar says, which is true enough.

The man smiles, distracted already. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get your shot one day. Enjoy the journey.”

Oscar thanks him, the words sticking somewhere behind his teeth. He finishes his drink, finds a quiet corner, and pretends to check messages on his phone until no one’s paying attention.

By the time he slips out the side exit, the night air feels like a reprieve. Outside, the city hums with life, the faint sound of music from the marina, laughter from the terrace bars, waves hitting against the hulls of yachts. He loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt and breathes properly for the first time all evening.

He should go back inside, head up to his room, but instead he walks. Past the casino, down toward the quiet streets near the water, where the streetlight glows gold against the pavement. The evening heat hasn’t lifted yet, clinging to his skin in a way that feels oddly grounding.

By the time he gets back to the hotel, the ballroom lights are still glowing through the windows. He imagines Esteban and Pierre laughing, posing for another round of photos, another sponsor handshake. He should feel part of that world, but he doesn’t. Not really. Not yet.

Tomorrow’s a free day, technically. In fact so are the next three. No media, no simulator sessions until Friday. He tells himself he’ll use the time to rest, maybe catch up on data later. But he already knows he won’t, he wasn’t lying when he told Lando he’s not sure he knows how to stop.

He lies awake for a while, watching the reflection of the city lights through his window. The thought of Esteban’s comment, ‘I might not be here next season’ loops in his mind. Seats move. Things change.

It’s enough to keep him awake. It’s enough to make him believe, just a little, that maybe he’s not as stuck as he feels.

…

The morning air in Monaco feels different, saltier, cleaner, touched by the faint smell of sunscreen and sea spray. The streets near the harbour are still quiet, save for the occasional car and the rhythmic slap of Oscar’s running shoes against the pavement. It’s early enough that the sky is still brushed pink, the sun barely cresting over the masts of the yachts moored along the water.

He likes running this time of day, before the rest of the world wakes up. Before endless engineer briefings and simulator runs. It’s just breath in, breath out. The steady rhythm of movement, the clean sting of air pulling into his lungs. The simplicity of it is grounding.

He turns down the street that runs parallel to the marina, looping past the narrow row of cafés that will be packed by midday. The awnings are still folded, chairs stacked on tables, the whole city suspended in that soft pre-wake stillness.

Then, just as he rounds the corner, a door swings open in front of him. Someone steps out, carrying a takeaway coffee and gaze focused on their phone.

Oscar reacts fast, a sidestep, quick enough to avoid collision but close enough that the coffee cup wobbles dangerously. The man holding it steadies it with a soft curse under his breath.

“Whoa…” Oscar says, pulling out his earphones, “sorry…”

The guy looks up.

And it’s Lando Norris.

Cap backwards, curls poking out, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms. His day old stubble creates a light shadow across his jaw and upper lip. Oscar tries not to notice as the light catches on it when Lando starts to smile in recognition.

“Oscar?” Lando says, a grin flickering. “Bloody hell, you trying to take me out before breakfast?”

Oscar’s pulse is still catching up. “To be fair, you were the one not paying attention.”

“I was leaving a café,” Lando says, mock offence in his tone. “You were sprinting like the last lap of quali.”

“Didn’t realise Monaco had right of way rules for footpaths,” Oscar mutters, putting his earbuds into his pocket.

Lando’s grin sharpens. “Pretty sure Monaco doesn’t have a lot of traffic rules in general.”

Oscar huffs a laugh despite himself. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee. Obviously.” Lando raises his cup before squinting at Oscar. “But the question is why are you out running at six thirty in the morning? Did you lose a bet?”

Oscar breathes out a laugh, still catching his breath. “It’s quieter at this time,” he says simply.

Lando studies him for a second then smirks. “You are an odd one Osc, you know that?”

“Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“Good,” Lando nods. “Definitely good.”

Oscar blinks caught off guard by the warmth in Lando’s words. He glances away from Lando, suddenly too aware of the sound of his heartbeat. He doesn’t know why such a simple comment lodges in his chest, but it does.

He shakes himself out of it and brings his attention back to Lando. “What are you doing up at this time of morning anyway?”

Lando throws his head back in a groan. “Media commitments. Interview for some sponsor thing. But I cannot face the camera before caffeine and food” He glances down at his coffee cup, sighing. “And this place has the best coffee in Monaco but they don’t serve food until seven. Tragic right?”

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “Devastating.”

“Exactly,” Lando nods seriously, then grins. “So, since I’m starving and you clearly would benefit from a feed after all that self-inflicted suffering, how about breakfast? My treat. There’s a place just up the street that opens early.”

Oscar hesitates, blinking slowly. He hadn’t expected to end his run with an invite to breakfast with Lando. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah. You can finish your run later. Come on.”

“I…” Oscar starts, caught between politeness and panic. “I’m sweaty.”

“So am I,” Lando says, though his hoodie and perfect hair say otherwise. “We’ll sit outside. The breeze will sort you out.”

Oscar hesitates, half looking back toward the way to his hotel, the rest of his run waiting. But Lando’s already down the street, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, Piastri. Don’t make me eat a stack of pancakes on my own.”

Against his better judgement, Oscar follows.

The café is tucked just off the marina, the sort of place you could walk past three times before noticing it. The outside has a white awning and small tables scattered along the pavement. Inside it’s small and warm, the smell of cinnamon and espresso hitting as soon as Lando held the door open for Oscar, a smile on his face.

They take a table on the outside patio by the windows. Lando slides into the seat opposite him, pushing his sunglasses onto the table, sunlight catching in the edge of his grin.

“Alright,” Lando says, scanning the menu like he’s memorised it. “You’re getting something proper. Not just toast.”

“I usually have toast.”

“I’m so shocked.” Lando shakes his head. “You’re an athlete. Fuel your body.”

“I am fuelling my body. With toast.”

“That’s like saying you’re hydrating with Coke.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches. “You’re very opinionated for someone who almost spilled coffee on himself.”

Lando pretends to look wounded. “That was a world class save.” He flips his menu over to the drinks side and looks back up at Oscar. “You still hating on coffee? Or can I convince you get a coffee as well?”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance. You insulted my flat white in front of an entire café last time.”

“It wasn’t an insult, I just said it tasted…”

“…like burnt dirt,” Lando finishes for him, mock offended. “I have a memory, Piastri.”

Oscar laughs as the waitress arrives at their table, pen ready to take their orders. “Your usual, Mr Norris?”

Lando grins. “You know me too well. Pancakes, flat white, and eggs Benedict.” He looks across the table. “Osc?”

Oscar blinks, realising he’d been too focused on Lando to really take in the menu. “Just… scrambled eggs. And toast.”

“Eh…” Lando shakes his head, lowering his voice in mock despair. “It’ll do. No imagination though.”

Oscar shakes his head, a laugh sneaking out. It still feels strange to him, how easy it always seems to talk to and be around Lando.

The waitress disappears, and for a moment it’s just the sound of soft morning chatter and Lando drumming his fingers on the table. Their drinks arrive quickly, Lando adds sugar to his coffee, stirring lazily, the clink of the spoon rhythmic against the cup. The morning light hits the side of his face, making the edges of his curls glow gold. He looks content in that quiet, confident way that always makes Oscar hyperaware of his own stillness.

“So,” Lando says after a beat, “tell me something I don’t know about you.”

Oscar blinks. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something that isn’t car related.”

“That doesn’t leave much.”

“Don’t dodge it,” Lando says, pointing at him with the spoon. “Everyone knows you can drive fast. I’m asking about you.”

Oscar shrugs, trying to hide how thrown off he is by the question. “I’ve got three sisters. Hattie, Edie, and Mae. They’re all younger, seventeen, fifteen and thirteen.”

“Three? You poor bastard,” Lando says, mock sympathy dripping from his tone. “Were you the test dummy for hair braiding?”

“More like the referee,” Oscar says, smiling now. “It was chaos most of the time, it was always loud in our home. Constant hair dryers and singing, stealing my hoodies, borrowing things without asking. But they’re good, funny, smarter than me definitely.”

“Sounds like they adore you?”

He picks at the label of the bottle his juice came in. “Yeah. They used to follow me everywhere. If I was in the backyard, they were there. If I went out with friends, they’d whine until Mum made me bring at least one of them along. I complained about it then, obviously, but now…” he trails off. “Now I kind of miss it.”

Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching him. “You’re a good brother Oscar,” he says, like it’s a fact.

“I try,” Oscar says. “It’s hard being away from them, though. When I moved to the UK, Mae told me the house felt too quiet now, she was six at the time. They used to all stay up and watch my races, even though most of the time that meant midnight on a Sunday night in Australia.”

Lando smiles, “sounds like you’ve got a pretty solid support network there Osc.”

“Yeah. They pretend not to care now,” Oscar says, voice light but fond. “But then one of them will text me a headline about myself with like, zero context, just a ‘saw this lol’, which I’ve taken as basically their way of saying they’re proud.”

Lando chuckles. “That’s cute.”

“They’re menaces,” Oscar says but he’s smiling.

“Sounds like they keep you grounded,” Lando says.

“They do,” Oscar admits. “What about you? What’s your family like?”

“My lot are the same. Loud. Everywhere. You can’t escape them, even when you try.”

Oscar turns toward him. “You’ve got, what, three siblings?”

“You been looking me up on wiki Osc,” Lando says with a grin.

Oscar feels his face redden. “No, I just…”

“I’m only joking,” Lando laughs.  “Yeah three siblings. Oliver’s the oldest, then me, then Flo and Cisca. It’s… a lot sometimes. Ollie used to treat me like his personal science experiment when we were kids. Always trying to see how far he could push before I’d snap. And the girls… ” He huffs a laugh. “They were chaos. Flo would steal my stuff, Cisca would rat her out, and somehow I’d end up getting in trouble.”

Oscar grins. “That sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, you’d get it.” Lando’s smile turns softer. “But I love them for it. They keep me honest. Flo’s probably the only person on earth who isn’t remotely impressed by any of this…” He gestures vaguely, meaning racing, fame, the attention. “She still tells me when my hair looks stupid or if I’m being an arse. Which… happens more often than I’d like to admit.”

Oscar laughs, low and easy. “You need people like that.”

“Exactly,” Lando says. “When I go home, it’s like, none of the racing stuff matters. I’m just Lando, the one who never takes the bins out and gets roasted for leaving wet towels on the floor.”

“That’s grounding, alright,” Oscar says with a smile.

Lando looks over at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah. It’s good, though. Reminds me who I am. I think you need that when you’re in this world.”

Oscar nods, quiet for a moment, feeling the truth of it settle between them. The kind of understanding that doesn’t need explaining.

Lando then laughs to himself. “Bet your sisters would love me.”

Oscar snorts. “Absolutely not. They’d see straight through you.”

Lando grins. “Even better. I like a challenge.”

Oscar smiles softly. “Do you miss being home?”

“Yeah,” Lando says, then adds, “I mean, I love what I do. But sometimes I miss just being… normal. You know? No cameras. No schedule. No one asking for interviews while you’re halfway through lunch.”

Oscar nods, knowing exactly what he means. “You still get that?”

Lando laughs under his breath. “Mate, I couldn’t buy bread in London without someone asking for a selfie. I moved here for the peace, which was a joke because now every second influencer lives in Monaco.”

That makes Oscar laugh, real and warm. Lando watches him for a second too long before smiling himself.

“Your parents proud of you?” Lando asks, tone lighter but the question honest.

“Yeah, I think so,” Oscar says. “They pretend they’re not obsessed but Mum still records every race. Dad texts me lap times he thinks I should’ve hit.”

Lando grins. “Classic Dad behaviour. Mine does that too. Sends me screenshots of my sector times like I didn’t just spend an hour in a debrief analysing them.”

Oscar shakes his head, laughing again. “At least they care.”

“True,” Lando says, leaning back. “Sometimes that’s all you need. People who care even when they don’t get it.”

Oscar nods slowly, looking down at his plate. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause, not awkward, just full of the kind of quiet that means both of them are thinking about what they’ve given up for this life. Lando breaks it first, his grin returning like sunlight after clouds. “Alright, enough emotional depth for one morning. When are you due back at Alpine?”

“Uh Friday.”

“Great,” Lando smiles. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing. My flight back is tonight.”

“Wrong answer.”

Oscar looks up, confused. “What?”

“You’re coming out with me tomorrow. Me, some of the other drivers and their partners, a few others. It’ll be fun. We’ve rented a yacht for the day. You can’t spend your days off only seeing the inside of a simulator.”

“I can’t just skip my flight.”

“Sure you can,” Lando says easily. “I have a spare room so you can stay with me for the night, come out tomorrow, and then you can fly back to the UK with me on Thursday. Easy.”

Oscar hesitates, the idea feeling too generous, too Lando. “You don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t,” Lando says, interrupting with that confident grin. “But I’m offering. Come on, you’ve earned one day that doesn’t involve fluorescent lights and telemetry data.”

Oscar laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re very persuasive.”

“I’ve been told that.”

He looks at Lando for a moment, the sunlight glinting off the rim of his coffee cup, the lazy warmth in his posture, the faint moles scattered across his skin. Something in Oscar’s chest tightens, not unpleasantly, just in that quiet, confusing way that feels like gravity.

“Alright,” Oscar says finally. “I’ll come.”

Lando’s grin widens as he throws his arms up in celebration. “Yes!” Oscar fights back a laugh as he ducks his head, his cheeks heating up as people turn to look at them.

They head off not long after. Outside, the air is warm and bright, the marina glittering under the early morning sun. Lando walks ahead, tossing a casual wave to the café staff as he pushes the door open. Oscar follows, eyes briefly catching on the easy way Lando moves, totally unhurried and comfortable in his own skin.

As they step into the street, Lando turns, walking backwards a few steps. “See? Not so bad spending a morning with me, is it?”

Oscar huffs out a laugh. “I’ll let you know after the yacht.”

“Cheeky,” Lando says, mock affronted. “I like it. I’ll text you my address. I’ll be done with this media thing by three so come round after that okay?”

“Okay.”

Lando waves and turns back around, shoving his hands in his pockets, heading toward the car park.

Oscar lingers for a moment, looking out over the water. The boats rock gently in their berths, sunlight scattering across the surface like flecks of glass. He feels… he’s not quite sure how to describe how Lando makes him feel. He takes a steadying breath before heading off back in the direction of his hotel.

…

It’s late afternoon when Oscar’s taxi lets him out in front of Lando’s high end apartment complex. The view showing the sea stretched out in the distance, boats looking like confetti scattered below. Oscar stares at the view for a moment, his stomach caught somewhere between excitement and anxiety.

He still doesn’t know how Lando talked him into this. One breakfast, a few laughs, and suddenly he’s spending the night at a Formula One champion’s house like that’s a normal thing to do.

When he enters the foyer, he’s greeted by the smell of polished marble and fresh flowers. It’s quiet, just the soft hum of instrumental music and suddenly his footsteps sound too loud. Oscar hesitates just inside the glass doors, clutching his bag as a man in a crisp black suit behind the front desk looks up.

“Good evening Mr Piastri,” he says already standing up and smiling at Oscar.

It catches Oscar off guard, the fact that they knew his name. The security guard gestures towards the elevator with practiced ease, pressing a button before Oscar can.

“Mr Norris is expecting you.” The words sound strange, formal, like they belong to a different kind of world.

Oscar murmurs a quiet thanks and steps inside the elevator, watching the marble floor disappear as the doors close. His reflection stares back at him from the mirrored panels, looking more and more out of place by the second.

The elevator doors open straight into Lando’s apartment, and for a moment Oscar just stands there, unsure if he’s meant to step out. The place is spotless in that expensive, effortless way. Floor to ceiling windows spilling light across the pale wooden floors, a skyline view that looks like it’d be worth a few million itself. There’s a faint hum from the city below, muted by the glass, and the scent of something sharp and clean, cologne maybe, or just money.

Oscar tugs at the strap of his bag, suddenly aware of the dirt on his shoes, of how out of place he feels amongst the minimalist furniture and framed art.

“Hey! You made it.”

Oscar turns to see Lando coming from the hallway to his left that leads to the open living room and kitchen space Oscar is currently standing in the entrance of.

“Yeah,” Oscar says, stepping further into Lando’s apartment. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” he admits, glancing around the open space. “Just doesn’t feel like home yet.”

Oscar looks over from where he’s standing near the window. “How long have you been here?”

“About six months now.” Lando leans back against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “I keep thinking I’d get around to making it mine, you know, putting stuff up, filling it with… whatever. But I never really do.” He gestures vaguely toward the living room. “It’s all too clean. Too empty. I come back from a race and it’s like walking into a hotel room. Quiet. Same smell. Nothing that actually belongs to me except my mess in the office.”

Oscar smiles a little. “You could start with something small. A photo, maybe.”

Lando nods, but his voice is soft when he replies. “Yeah. I don’t know. I think I’ve been everywhere except home for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches him. The city hums quietly below them, and for a moment it feels like the kind of honesty people only stumble into by accident, late, tired, unguarded.

Then Lando gives a half smile, trying to shake it off. “Anyway,” he says, pushing off the counter, “I’ll get there. Just might need someone with actual taste to help me out.”

Oscar raises a brow. “You’re asking me for taste advice?”

Lando grins. “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s a start.”

Lando grabs Oscar’s duffel and directs him towards the spare bedroom, pointing out the bathroom, the office and Lando’s bedroom as they pass. Oscar consciously tries not to think too hard about what the inside of Lando’s bedroom might look like.

“Make yourself at home,” Lando says, dropping Oscar’s bag on the bed. “Water? Snack? I’ve got half a fridge of leftovers and possibly enough cereal to survive the apocalypse.”

“Water’s fine,” Oscar says.

Lando disappears into the kitchen. Oscar takes a slow walk through the living area, trying not to stare too obviously. Lando was right, there really isn’t anything here that would make this a home, no photos of family and friends on the walls, no gifts that he knows Lando leaves every grand prix inundated with.

And then he sees it, a framed photo hanging on the wall above the couch. It’s a collage of photos that each show Lando standing on the podium, trophy in hand, for each of his four championship wins. The small engraved plaque below reads ‘World Drivers Champion 2018, 2021, 2023, 2024.

Oscar stops. For a moment, he doesn’t move. It’s one thing to know Lando’s a four time world champion. It’s another to see it laid out like this. Each photo captures a slightly different version of him through the years, younger, sharper, surer.

Lando’s voice breaks the quiet. “Bit much, isn’t it?”

Oscar turns, Lando’s standing behind him, two bottles of water in hand.

“No,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “It’s… impressive.”

Lando’s expression softens. “Jon insisted I put it up after a fan made it for me. He said I should actually look at them instead of pretending they didn’t happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Lando says after a moment. “It’s weird. You chase something for years, and then once you get it… I kind of expected to cross that finish line and all the noise in my head would just stop,” he laughs softly, but it’s hollow. “It didn’t. If anything it just got louder because then the voices were just telling me I needed to win again to prove to myself and everyone else that it wasn’t just a fluke.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything, he just watches and follows Lando’s lead as they sit on the couch.

Lando rubs a hand over his face. “You spend your whole life chasing it, you know? Every decision, every sacrifice, all built around that one goal. And then you get it, and you realise you don’t actually know who you are without the chase. Everyone’s expecting you to be happy, to be… fulfilled. And you smile, because that’s what they want to see. But inside you’re just.. empty. Like you already hit the peak, and everything after is just falling.”

He looks up then, meeting Oscar’s eyes with a small smile. “It’s exhausting. The pressure, the expectation. The fear of messing it all up.”

Oscar shifts closer, his voice quiet. “You ever tell anyone that?”

Lando shakes his head. “Nah. People don’t want to hear that. They want the story, the trophies and the champagne celebrations. Not the bit after.”

For a long moment, there’s just the quiet hum of the city below them. Then Lando sits back, lets out a breath, and the edge in his voice softens.

“But don’t get me wrong,” Lando says. “I still love it. I love racing. Always have.” A small, real smile tugs at the corner of Lando’s mouth. “When it’s just me and the car, no cameras, no noise, I still get that same feeling I did when I was a kid. That’s what keeps me in it. That’s what makes all the bullshit worth it.”

He looks out towards the skyline, the sunlight reflecting on the glass. “And I do look back on those wins, the championships fondly. They mean something and I’m proud of them. I just… I wish I’d known sooner that they weren’t supposed to be the whole thing you know? That you can love what you do and still feel burnt out by it.”

Oscar nods quietly, his voice barely above a murmur. “Makes sense.”

Lando glances back at him, a faint, tired smile on his lips. “Yeah. Ten years in and I’m still figuring out how to let it all exist at the same time. The love, the pressure, the mess of it all. But I wouldn’t trade it. Not for a second.”

Oscar studies him for a moment, the honesty, the cracks in the usual confidence, and something in his chest tightens. Oscar hesitates, his gaze flicking down to Lando’s hand resting against his knee. Before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches across the small space between them and gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s awkward, tentative, but sincere.

Lando’s head turns, surprise flashing in his eyes. He stares at Oscar like he’s not sure what to do with the gesture, like it’s something fragile he might break if he moves too fast. Then he clears his throat, blinking himself out of it. “Bloody hell,” he says, forcing a grin. “We’ve had one too many deep talks today, haven’t we?”

Oscar pulls his hand back, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe just one.”

Lando pushes up from the sofa, shaking his head as if to reset. “Right. Enough of that. I promised you dinner on me after Miami, didn’t I?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, amused. “You did.”

“Right,” Lando says, already moving toward the kitchen. “You’re in for a treat. My culinary skills are unmatched.”

“Unmatched because no one else is brave enough to try?” Oscar teases, following him.

Lando glances back over his shoulder, smirking. “You’ll see. By the end of the night, you’ll be begging me to open a restaurant.”

Oscar snorts. “Begging someone, sure. Probably your building manager to clear the smoke alarm.”

Lando laughs, opening a cupboard with unnecessary flair. “Have a little faith, Piastri. I’ve only nearly burnt down the kitchen once before.”

“That’s comforting,” Oscar says dryly, leaning against the counter. “Really inspires confidence.”

Lando flashes him a grin as he pulls out a frying pan. “You’re about to witness greatness. Sit back, relax, and prepare to be impressed.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but doesn’t move. Somehow, watching Lando clatter around the kitchen, confident, chaotic, completely himself, feels a lot like relief.

The kitchen is enormous, the kind of open, marble countered space that could host a cooking show. Lando moves around it like it’s familiar, though half the cupboards he opens seem to contain things he didn’t remember owning.

Oscar takes over halfway through, laughing quietly as Lando mistakes salt for sugar. “You’d be useless without a team,” he says.

Lando points a wooden spoon at him. “I’ll have you know I’ve perfected the art of ordering takeaway.”

“That’s not a skill.”

“It is when you’re hungry.”

It’s easy, falling into conversation. Easier than Oscar expects. Lando’s curious, genuinely curious, asking more questions about Oscar’s life although steering away from any heavy topics. Oscar tells him about what it was like growing up in Melbourne and what he misses most about Australia. He talks about boarding school, about moving overseas at twelve and how snow never really stopped feeling strange. Lando listens the whole time, leaning on the counter, chin propped in his hand.

Dinner ends up being simple, pasta, salad, garlic bread. They eat at the kitchen island instead of the table. The conversation drifts between topics, the way it does when two people are still figuring out each other.

Lando makes him laugh more than he means to. Oscar doesn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed, not pretending, not performing, just being.

When they’re done, Lando stands, stretching. “Alright. I’ll wash. You dry.”

“You cooked,” Oscar protests.

“I burnt the garlic. I owe you.”

Oscar sighs but takes his place by the sink. “Fine. But you’ve got to do the dishes properly, no short cuts.”

“I would never,” Lando shoots back in mock defence.

“Lies.”

“You wound me.”

“You wound your cookware.”

Lando grins, bumping him with his hip. “You’re getting feisty, Piastri.”

He glances at Lando then, just for a second. The grin, the messy curls, the way he leans casually against the counter like he belongs there. Something twists quietly in Oscar’s chest. He turns back to the sink, hoping it doesn’t show.

They fall into rhythm easily, Lando washing and rinsing, Oscar drying, both moving around each other in that casual, half accidental way that happens when the silence between two people stops feeling heavy.

Music plays softly from a speaker on the counter, something easy and acoustic, half drowned by the running water. The light from the ceiling glows warm against the marble and steel.

Oscar stacks a plate on the rack and passes the next one over. Lando takes it, their fingers brushing. It’s nothing really, a small thing, but it lingers in Oscar’s chest longer than it should.

Lando hums under his breath, tapping the side of the sink with a spoon in rhythm to the song. “You’re pretty good at this,” he says. “Should hire you as my full time dishwasher.”

“I’ll pass,” Oscar says.

“Come on, it’s glamorous. Big money. Free food.”

“Slave labour.”

Lando laughs bright and easy, it fills the kitchen. Oscar just shakes his head and goes back to scrubbing. Lando flicks the tap on harder, sending a splash of water across the counter and directly into Oscar’s shirt and face.

Oscar looks down, then at Lando. “Did you just…”

“It was an accident,” Lando says, tone innocent and obviously lying.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Right.”

“Tragic plumbing, maybe.”

Oscar doesn’t look away. “You sure you want to start this?”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Start what?”

Oscar dips his fingers into the soapy water and flicks a small handful straight at him. It hits Lando’s shirt.

Lando stares down at the wet patch, lips parting in mock outrage. “You didn’t just…”

“Oh, I did.”

There’s a beat of silence before Lando scoops up a sponge and flicks it back. Bubbles fly through the air and land squarely on Oscar’s chest.

“Now it’s war,” Lando says, laughter breaking through his voice.

What follows is chaos. Oscar ducks, grabs a handful of suds, Lando retaliates with a flick of the dishcloth. Water splashes onto the floor. They’re both laughing, breathless laughter that shakes out of them in waves.

Lando tries to dart behind the counter, but Oscar catches his wrist. They stumble, both half slipping on the slick floor. Lando grabs him instinctively, steadying them both with a hand around Oscar’s waist. Oscar’s hand now wrapped around Lando’s forearm.

And suddenly they’re close. Too close.

The world seems to stop moving. The only sounds coming from water dripping somewhere on the floor and the faint music still playing from Lando’s speaker.

Oscar freezes. He can feel every point of contact. Lando’s fingers that have instinctively tightened around his waist, the pad of his thumb catching his pale skin where his shirt has ridden up in their soap fight. Oscar’s lets out an involuntary shiver at the feelings as his breath gets caught in his throat.

Lando’s laughter dies in his throat. The grin that had been wide and reckless fades into something else entirely. His hand doesn’t drop away, it just softens, thumb brushing over Oscar’s waist like he hasn’t realised he’s even doing it.

They’re standing in the middle of the kitchen with bubbles clinging to them. Oscar’s chest brushes Lando’s when he inhales. The air feels thick, charged. He can smell soap and citrus and the faint salt of Lando’s skin, the warmth radiating off him.

Neither of them speaks. The moment stretches long enough that Oscar’s heart stumbles into a faster rhythm. His eyes flick up to Lando’s face. His pulse jumps when he notices that Lando’s gaze is flickering between his face and his mouth.

He doesn’t know who moves first, or if either of them even does, but the space between them feels like it’s shrinking all on its own.

Lando’s gaze drops. Just slightly. Just enough.

It’s such a small shift, but it makes Oscar’s breath stutter. He can feel the heat of Lando now, the air shared between them, the edge of something unspoken pressing closer and closer. His stomach twists, his throat dry. He thinks, if he just leans in a little more…

But then Lando blinks. His eyes widen, the spell snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight. He steps back quickly, his shoes squeaking on the wet floor as he loses grip and balance, letting go of Oscar in the process to right himself on the bench top.

“Shit,” Lando says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “We’re gonna kill ourselves on this floor if we keep that up.”

Oscar swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Probably.”

They move at the same time, reaching for the towel. Their hands collide again, a fleeting brush, nothing really, but it feels like too much. Lando pulls away first, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m, uh…” He gestures vaguely down the hall. “Going to go shower. Get this soap off before it sticks.”

Oscar nods, eyes on the sink. “Sure.”

“You can use the main bathroom, everything you’ll need is in there.”

Oscar just nods again.

“Night, Oscar.”

“Night.”

The sound of Lando’s footsteps fades. The kitchen settles into silence again, only the faint hiss of the tap breaking it. Oscar stands there for a long moment, staring at the suds floating in the sink, heart still thudding like he’s just run ten laps. He presses both hands against the counter, trying to steady his breathing.

It had been nothing, a laugh, a bit of chaos, bad timing. Except it hadn’t felt like nothing.

The warmth of Lando’s hand lingers, impossible to shake. So does the memory of that look, the one that had dropped from his eyes to his mouth like gravity had shifted.

Oscar lets the sink drain and dries his hands slowly. His reflection in the dark window looks pale, wide eyed, caught halfway between disbelief and something he doesn’t want to name.

“Fuck.” He whispers, almost to himself, “What the hell was that?”

No answer comes. Only the quiet pulse of the ocean outside and the distant sound of Lando turning a shower on down the hall.

Chapter Text

Oscar wakes the next morning to the sound of gulls outside the window and the soft crash of waves somewhere beyond the cliffs. For a second he doesn’t remember where he is. The sheets are crisp, the pillow smells faintly of sea salt and laundry detergent, and there’s sunlight leaking in through half drawn curtains that don’t belong to any hotel room he’s ever stayed in.

Then it hits him. Lando’s house. Monaco. Last night. His stomach twists.

He sits up slowly, scrubbing both hands over his face like that might erase the memory, but it comes back in fragments anyway, the sound of Lando’s laugh echoing in the kitchen, the slip of soap across the counter, the moment everything stilled. Lando’s hand on his waist, his thumb brushing his skin like he didn’t realise what he was doing. That half second pause where their eyes locked and Oscar felt the air shift.

He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Brilliant,” he mutters under his breath.

He doesn’t even know what it was. A near miss? A mistake? A glitch in whatever easy thing they’d been building? All he knows is that when Lando’s eyes flicked to his mouth, something in him had lit up like a match, and that feeling has been lodged there ever since.

He dresses slowly, every sound in the house amplified by the quiet. He can hear faint music somewhere down the hall, the low thrum of a speaker and the scrape of cutlery. Lando’s up. Of course he is.

When Oscar finally makes his way to the kitchen, he hesitates in the doorway.

Lando’s standing by the counter in a loose t-shirt and shorts, hair still damp from a shower, sunglasses perched in his curls. He’s scrolling through his phone with one hand and spreading jam on toast with the other, humming softly along to whatever’s playing through the speaker. It’s so casual, so unbothered, that Oscar almost convinces himself he imagined everything that happened last night.

Lando glances up briefly when he senses movement. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Oscar says quietly, stepping inside.

“Sleep alright?” Lando asks without really looking at him, eyes on his phone balanced on his plate.

“Yeah. You?”

Lando nods, picking up his toast. “Like a rock. You hungry? There’s toast, cereal, whatever you want.”

Oscar shakes his head, still awkward. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Lando says. He reaches for his mug, still scrolling his phone with his free hand. It’s not rude, but it’s not Lando’s usual behaviour either. The casual warmth that always seems to follow Lando around has been replaced by something colder.

Oscar shifts on his feet. “Big day?”

Lando shrugs, takes a bite. “Yeah, sun, sea, maybe a bit of swimming. You ready?”

“Yeah,” Oscar answers, though it comes out more uncertain than he means it to.

Lando hums in response but he still doesn’t look up. The silence stretches again. The sound of Lando eating his toast is too loud, too sharp. He seems restless, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. Oscar watches him for a moment, trying to read the distance in his movements, the stiffness in his shoulders.

There’s a pause, long enough for the air to thicken. Oscar exhales, unable to take it anymore. “Are you… mad at me or something?”

This gets Lando’s attention, his hand stills mid-scroll, eyes flicking up, brow furrowing like the question caught him off guard. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“I just…” Oscar falters, shifting his weight. “Last night. It got kind of weird. And now you just seem off this morning. I don’t know if I said something or…”

Lando puts the toast down, eyes softening. “Hey. No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Oscar crosses his arms loosely, staring at the floor. “It felt like maybe I did.”

Lando leans against the counter, tone careful now. “You didn’t and I’m not mad. If anything, I’m the one who probably made it awkward so I’m sorry about that.”

Oscar looks up. “You don’t need to apologise.”

“I do.” Lando cuts him off gently, eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. There’s something careful there, an edge of guilt beneath the steadiness. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry that I made things weird.”

“You didn’t,” Oscar says quickly, maybe too quickly.

Lando’s mouth twitches, a faint half smile. “I think I did. And that’s on me.” He leans against the counter, arms folding across his chest. “I really like hanging out with you, Oscar. You’re… easy to be around. It’s been nice.” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I really like having you as a friend and I’m sorry if last night blurred any of those lines.”

Oscar’s heart stumbles somewhere between the words really like and just friends. He forces a nod. “Yeah, no, I get that. No lines were blurred.”

“I mean it,” Lando says. “You’ve very quickly become one of my best mates. I don’t want to mess that up.”

“You’re not,” Oscar says quietly. “It’s fine, really. You don’t have to apologise.”

Lando smiles, the kind of quick, nervous smile that feels too thin to be real. “Alright. Then we’re good.”

“Yeah,” Oscar manages. “We’re good.”

“Good,” Lando picks his phone back up, scrolls for a second, then says lightly, “We should get going soon. Everyone’s meeting at the marina around ten. You’ll like them, promise. Dan and Max will be there. You’ve met them already.”

Oscar hums, half listening. He watches as Lando pushes away from the counter to grab his sunglasses, sunlight flashing across the sharp edge of his smile. He looks completely at ease now, like he’s erased the night before completely from his mind.

Oscar wishes he could say the same.

As they move around the kitchen, Lando rinsing dishes, Oscar pretending to check messages on his phone, the silence feels fragile, stretched thin. Every brush of movement feels too loud, too careful.

At one point their hands touch when they both reach for the same glass, and Oscar flinches before he can stop himself. Lando notices. His expression flickers for half a second, surprise, then something almost like guilt before he smiles again.

“Truce?” he says quietly, holding the glass out to him.

Oscar takes it, fingers brushing Lando’s for the briefest moment. “Truce.”

Lando’s smile softens, almost fond. “Good. Because I don’t want you acting weird all day.”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You’re trying really hard not to, which is worse.”

Oscar winces. “Sorry.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong Osc, I just want you to feel comfortable.”

“I am, I promise.”

Lando pauses at the doorway, half turned back toward him. “Hey,” he says softly, “for what it’s worth, I am really glad you’re here.”

Oscar nods, but his throat’s too tight to answer. When Lando leaves, the room feels even bigger, emptier somehow. He stares at the table for a while, then at the half empty coffee cup Lando left behind. It’s ridiculous, he thinks. It was always just friendship. It’s not like Lando owes him anything more than that.

Still, when he finally turns to leave, there’s a weight in his chest he can’t quite shake, a small, quiet ache that follows him all the way back to his room.

When they head down to underground garage where Lando’s gallery of cars are located, Oscar trails a few steps behind, the artificial light creating shadows in all directions. Lando hums as he unlocks the door of his car of choice today, tossing a couple of towels into the backseat before sliding behind the wheel.

Oscar pauses and he thinks about how strange it is, the way one night can change the air between two people completely. He climbs into the passenger seat, fastens his seatbelt, and looks over at Lando.

Lando glances over, grin returning. “Ready?”

Oscar nods, forcing a small smile. “Yeah.”

The car hums to life. Music fills the space, bright and careless. Lando taps the steering wheel in rhythm as they pull out of the driveway, sunlight flaring across the dash.

They drive in silence. Not uncomfortable exactly, just the kind that hums with things unsaid. The sun’s already bright, heat rippling off the road in the distance as they wind down the hill toward the marina. The water glitters below, broken into shards of silver by the breeze.

Lando’s car smells faintly of sunscreen and leather. The windows are down, the wind whipping through Oscar’s hair as the engine hums beneath them.

Lando drives like he does everything else, relaxed but precise. One hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against his thigh in rhythm with the music. Every now and then he hums under his breath, eyes flicking from the road to the sea. He looks at home like this, the sun on his skin, the salt in the air, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Oscar sits in the passenger seat, one knee drawn up slightly, sunglasses on, trying not to think too much. But it’s impossible not to. He keeps replaying everything in his head. He tells himself to let it go, to just enjoy the day. He tells himself it’s fine. But his stomach still knots every time Lando glances his way.

At a red light, Lando looks over, eyebrows lifting. “You’re quiet.”

Oscar forces a small smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s not something you have to apologise for Oscar,” Lando says.

“Right,” Oscar fiddles with the hem of his shorts. “Sorry.”

“Osc,” Lando laughs. “No more apologising okay?”

“Okay,” Oscar huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but Lando’s right, he has been quieter than usual. The memory of last night sits heavy in his chest, mixed with something else now though, something harder to name. Something that’s been nagging at him since Lando invited him along to this thing today.

The light changes, and they roll forward again. The wind picks up, warm against Oscar’s arm as he rests it on the open window.

Lando points out a small café on the corner as they pass it. “That place has the best croissants you’ll ever have. Like, life changing levels of butter.”

Oscar glances over. “You sound like you’re getting commission.”

“Please, I should. I’ve kept them in business single handedly.”

“I’m sure Jon would love to hear that.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Oscar laughs despite himself. The tension lightens for a moment, the kind of moment that feels normal, simple, like the air between them hasn’t changed at all.

But it does change again when the conversation falls away. The silence returns, thicker this time, heavier. Lando hums quietly to the music, and Oscar stares out the window, watching the world blur past.

It’s Lando who breaks it. “Alright, tell me what’s actually going on.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“You’ve been off all morning,” Lando says, eyes still on the road. “And don’t tell me it’s last night because we truced on that remember, or because you’re tired, because I’ve seen you do three sim sessions in a row without blinking.”

Oscar hesitates. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

He exhales slowly. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Oscar stares down at his hands, fingers twisting in his lap. “It’s just… sometimes I feel like I don’t really fit in with all this.”

Lando glances over. “This?”

“Yeah. Hanging out with you. Everyone always has something to say about it.”

Lando frowns. “Say what?”

Oscar gives a small shrug. “That it’s weird. That I’m too young to be hanging around you. That it looks odd. That I’m just the kid following the older guy around like some sort of fan.” He forces a small laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “They make it sound like a joke, but it’s not really funny when you hear it enough times.”

Lando’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “People love to talk but it doesn’t mean they’re right Osc.”

“Maybe,” Oscar says quietly, “but they’re not exactly wrong either, are they? You’re older, more experienced. You’ve won four championships. I haven’t even got a seat. You’ve got everything figured out. And then there’s me, still trying to…” He breaks off, shaking his head again. “It just looks strange from the outside.”

Lando exhales, his tone softening. “You’re twenty, Oscar, not twelve.”

“Yeah, but you’re twenty eight, twenty nine in a few months. It’s a big gap.”

Lando glances at him, something like frustration and fondness mixed in his eyes. “It’s not that big. Nine years isn’t a lifetime.”

“Feels like one sometimes,” Oscar mutters. “You’ve been doing this for so long. You’ve lived all these things I haven’t even gotten close to yet. Everyone looks at you and sees a champion. They look at me and see…” Oscar sighs. “They see a kid.”

Lando’s voice drops lower, almost careful. “You’re not just a kid, Osc. You’ve worked your way up the same as everyone else. You’ve earned where you are.”

Oscar turns toward the window, the Monaco skyscrapers rolling by in flashes of sunlight and sea. “Doesn’t stop people talking.”

“Let them,” Lando says, more firmly now. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They see what’s easy, the surface stuff. They don’t see the hours you spend in that simulator or how seriously you take all this. And if they can’t understand why I like being around you, that’s on them.”

Oscar wants to believe that. He nods, even smiles, but there’s still a faint tightness in his chest that won’t quite ease. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Lando glances over again, softer now. “Don’t thank me. Just stop worrying about what other people think. You’re allowed to exist without apologising for it.”

Oscar exhales, the sound shaky but real. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” Lando says, and the light catches the edge of his smile. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The conversation fades into quiet. The road unwinds along the coast, sunlight breaking across the bonnet in sharp flashes that make Oscar squint. Lando hums softly under his breath, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against the open window frame, fingers tapping to a rhythm only he can hear.

Oscar watches the water roll past in a blur of deep blue and white foam. He should feel lighter after what Lando said, but the words sit somewhere tangled in his chest. ‘You’re allowed to exist without apologising for it’. He wants to believe it. He wants to believe Lando doesn’t care what people say.

But he’s also seen the way people look at them. The comments, the jokes, the half whispered remarks about the world champion and the kid who follows him around like he’s still learning to walk. Lando can brush it off, he’s always been good at that. Oscar isn’t sure he can.

He glances sideways. Lando’s still driving, eyes on the road, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. The light hits his face in a way that softens everything, the line of his jaw, the faint freckles across his nose. He looks calm, comfortable, like none of it ever touches him.

Oscar looks back out the window before Lando can catch him staring. The sea stretches endlessly alongside them, glittering and untouchable. He breathes in the warm air, tastes the salt on it, and tells himself to stop overthinking.

Lando said they were friends. That he liked being around him. That should be enough.

Still, as the car hums down the coastal road, Oscar can’t help the quiet ache that lingers, the part of him that wishes “you’re good company” meant something more.

The car rounds a bend, the view opening up to the stretch of the marina below, rows of gleaming yachts catching the sun. The water shimmers bright blue, dotted with movement and laughter.

Lando nudges him lightly with his elbow. “Now cheer up, Piastri. I refuse to take you on a yacht if you’re gonna be moody the whole time. No bad vibes allowed.”

He turns up the volume on the music, the wind rushing louder through the open windows as they descend toward the water. The tension finally starts to melt from Oscar’s shoulders. He watches as people appear like bright dots along the docks, the smell of salt and fuel hitting him even from here.

Lando drives with one hand again, easy and confident, humming to the beat. Every so often he glances across, eyes flicking between the road and Oscar, and there’s something about that small, unspoken warmth that makes Oscar feel a little steadier. He doesn’t know why it helps so much, maybe because Lando said it like he meant it.

As they pull into the car park overlooking the marina, Lando leans back in his seat and stretches. “See? Not so bad, yeah?”

Oscar glances at him, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, not so bad.”

“Good,” Lando says, grin widening. “Now get ready to socialise. You’re about to meet the loudest group of people you’ve ever encountered in your life.”

Oscar groans quietly, already dreading it. “Great.”

“You’ll be fine.” Lando claps him on the shoulder before getting out of the car, the touch light but grounding. “You’ve got me.” He doesn’t know why his chest tightens the way it does, but he follows Lando anyway, heart already beating a little faster.

“There she is,” Lando says, nodding toward the luxury yacht moored at the end of the dock, sleek white, two decks, loud music spilling faintly from the speakers onboard. A few figures are already visible from the top deck, Daniel waving from the top rail, Charles leaning casually against the side with his arm around a tanned brunette, a few others talking near the back.

Oscar’s pulse kicks up a notch.

“C’mon,” Lando says, glancing back with a grin. “Try not to look like you’re about to meet the Queen.”

Oscar scoffs under his breath but follows. The dock creaks under their steps. When they reach the yacht, Daniel calls out, “Oi! Took you long enough!” He lets out a cheer when his gaze catches on Oscar. “Hey, you brought the rookie?”

Lando rolls his eyes. “He’s not a rookie.”

Daniel grins as Oscar climbs aboard. “He looks like one.”

“Cheers,” Oscar says dryly.

Daniel laughs, clapping him on the back. “Welcome, mate. Drinks are in the cooler, sunscreen’s somewhere under the chaos. I’d say make yourself at home, but Lando will make sure that happens.”

Lando tosses him a look that makes Daniel grin wider. “Don’t scare him off yet.”

Oscar glances around the deck. He recognises a few faces immediately, Max Verstappen standing near the bow, talking to George Russell and Carmen, Charles Leclerc and Alexandra laughing with Alex Albon and Lily, both couples holding glasses that definitely aren’t just juice. There are a few unfamiliar faces as well, a handful of friends Oscar doesn’t know.

Everyone seems comfortable, familiar, already wrapped up in their own conversations. He feels like an extra on a movie set dropped into someone else’s scene. 

Lando must sense it because he turns to him, tone quieter. “You good?”

Oscar nods quickly. “Yeah, fine.”

“Don’t look so terrified,” Lando says with a grin. “You’ll fit in.”

“Define fit in.”

Lando’s grin widens. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Before Oscar can say anything else, Daniel swoops in again, handing him a can. “Hydration time, rookie.”

Oscar takes it, eyebrows raised. He pops the tab, the drink cold against his hand, and takes a sip. Around him, the chatter builds, stories, jokes, the kind of easy camaraderie that comes from people who spend too much time around each other.

Lando steps away to greet Max, and for a moment, Oscar lets himself breathe, leaning on the railing, watching the sun dance on the surface of the water. He sees out of the corner of his eye as Lando  reaches out and grabs Max lightly by the arm. The gesture looks casual to anyone else, but Oscar catches the look on his face, serious and controlled.

“Mate,” Lando says lowly, barely audible over the music. “Need a word. Now.”

Max raises a brow, mid laugh. “Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

Something in Lando’s tone makes Max nod without question. They step away from the group, heading toward the far side of the deck where the railing curves out over the water. Oscar can’t hear them anymore from where he is standing.

Oscar tells himself not to look, not to care, but his eyes flick across the deck before he can stop them. Lando’s back is to him, shoulders tense, one hand cutting through the air as he speaks. Max listens with his arms folded, saying little, just watching.

Then Max says something back, quieter. Lando glances toward Oscar without thinking, a fleeting look, quick as a blink. Max follows his gaze. They both turn away again almost immediately, continuing their hushed exchange.

The small, unspoken acknowledgement lands like a stone in Oscar’s chest. He looks down at his drink, pretending to stir the melting ice with the straw, heart thudding against his ribs.

It’s probably nothing, he tells himself. At least nothing to do with him. But the thought won’t hold. He’s been around long enough to recognise the body language, that tense, contained frustration, the way Lando’s jaw works when he’s trying to keep something inside.

When they finally come back, Lando’s expression has smoothed over. He’s laughing again, too easily, voice pitched just a little too high. Max looks neutral, unreadable.

Daniel drags Oscar over to the cooler again before Lando can reach him, cracking open another drink and pressing it into his hand before launching into a story about his first ever sponsor event gone wrong. Max laughs, tension forgotten, and even Lando joins in, leaning against the railing with an amused shake of his head.

Bit by bit, the edges blur. Oscar finds himself easing into it, the noise, the jokes, the way everyone overlaps in conversation. Someone puts on louder music. Carmen, Alex and Lily make themselves comfortable at the couches at the back of the yacht and George and Max start arguing over who is going to man the barbeque.

Oscar sits back, letting the breeze cool his skin, the sound of the ocean rising and falling around them. For the first time that day, he doesn’t feel out of place. He’s not the kid at the edge of the paddock or the shadow behind the simulator. He’s just Oscar, twenty years old, sunburnt, holding a drink that’s already warm, surrounded by people who, somehow, make him feel like he’s part of something again.

He looks over at Lando, who’s mid-story now, hands moving animatedly as he mimics Daniel’s exaggerated retelling. His smile is wide and real, his laughter bright and unguarded.

Something shifts in Oscar’s chest, quiet but certain. It’s that same pull again, the one he’s been trying not to name since Japan. He tears his gaze away, takes another drink, and tells himself it’s fine.

…

The sun begins to dip just enough to turn the air heavy and golden, the sea stretching wide and glittering around them. The yacht rocks gently, its deck warm under Oscar’s bare feet. Someone’s turned the music up louder now, easy, summery, something with a bass line that makes the air thrum.

He’s sitting near the edge of the upper deck with another drink Daniel pressed into his hand a while ago, the conversation around him a comfortable blur of voices and laughter. It feels distant, in that fuzzy way that comes with sun and salt and a little too much alcohol.

Lando’s across the deck, talking to George and Max, his sunglasses perched in his hair, skin browned from the sun. Every so often his laugh cuts through the noise, bright and familiar, a sound that somehow always seems to find Oscar.

Oscar looks away before it becomes obvious he’s watching.

“Hey.”

He startles slightly.

The voice belongs to a tall woman with dark hair and easy confidence. She’s holding a drink, condensation glistening down the glass, and smiling at him like they’ve known each other for years.

“You’re Oscar, right?” she asks, sitting down beside him without waiting for an answer. “Cassie.”

He blinks. “Oh, hi.”

“You’re a lot different than I expected.”

Oscar hesitates. “Oh, uh, sorry?”

She laughs softly, tilting her head. “It’s not a bad thing. You’ve got a bit of a reputation. The quiet genius kid. Everyone’s been saying you’re the next big thing.”

He flushes. “I don’t think everyone’s saying that.”

“Well, I am,” she says, teasing, eyes bright. “And I have great taste.”

Oscar doesn’t quite know what to do with that. He scratches the back of his neck, glancing away. “Thanks, I guess.”

Cassie grins, sipping her drink. “So, what are you doing hiding out here on your own?”

“I’m not hiding,” Oscar says, though it sounds defensive even to his own ears.

“Sure you’re not,” Cassie grins and nudges his shoulder.

“Guess I’m not very good at the whole ‘social butterfly’ thing,” he laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” she says, leaning in slightly. “It’s kind of cute.”

That makes him choke slightly on his drink. “Cute?”

“Yeah.” Cassie grins, amused by his reaction. “You’ve got this whole quiet, mysterious thing going on. Doesn’t work for everyone but you definitely pull it off.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” Oscar says quickly, cheeks burning.

“It is now.” She taps her glass lightly against his. “To mysterious charm.”

He hesitates then clinks his glass back. “Right.”

Cassie tilts her head, watching him with that same teasing curiosity. “You always this shy?”

“I’m not shy,” he says, a little too fast.

She laughs, delighted. “You so are.”

He shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. “I just don’t really know what to say half the time.”

“Then don’t,” she says easily. “You’ve got nice eyes. They can do the talking for you.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

She just laughs again, leaning back. “Relax, I’m joking. Mostly.”

He’s certain his face is on fire now. He takes a sip of his drink to hide it, the ice clinking against the glass.

Cassie smiles knowingly, eyes warm. “You’re fun to talk to, Oscar.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, unsure what to say that won’t make things worse. “Uh… thanks?”

“You really need to work on your flirting game,” she teases.

“Oh I wasn’t…” He cuts himself off when she raises a brow. “Sorry, I didn’t realise we were, you know...”

She laughs, bright and genuine, and for a second he can’t help but smile too.

But when he glances across the deck, his gaze catches Lando’s who is watching them. He’s standing near the edge of the deck, talking to Max again, but his body’s angled slightly toward them. His expression isn’t what Oscar expects. He’s not smiling. His jaw’s tight, sunglasses still perched forgotten on his head, eyes fixed on the two of them.

For a second, Oscar swears Lando looks almost… angry.

It’s brief, fleeting, but unmistakable. Then Max says something, and Lando’s attention flicks away, his face smoothing back into something lighter, easier.

Oscar turns back quickly, heart kicking up for reasons he can’t quite explain. Cassie’s still talking, but he’s lost the thread. The words blur together. He nods when it feels appropriate, smiles when she does, but his focus is shot.

Cassie laughs again, dragging him back to the present. “You alright?”

Oscar blinks. “Yeah, sorry, zoned out.”

“Long day?”

“Something like that.”

She smiles, resting her chin in her hand. Oscar smiles back, but it’s distracted, automatic. The warmth of her proximity does nothing to settle the twist in his stomach.

…

By late afternoon, the sun hangs lower over the sea, turning everything the colour of honey. The air is thick with salt and the lingering smell of sunscreen. The playlist has shifted to something slower but still bright, laughter rising easily above the hum of the engine.

Oscar ends up sitting cross legged near the bow, half listening as Charles tells a story about a disaster fan event in Italy involving the Tifosi. The details are ridiculous, and everyone laughs loud enough to startle the gulls.

Cassie offers him another drink, he shakes his head with a small smile. The first few had gone to his head quicker than expected. The sea air does that, makes everything hit harder, feel looser.

At some point during the afternoon, Lando appears out of nowhere with a bottle of sunscreen. “You doing alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re going to burn,” he says, crouching in front of Oscar.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pink.”

“I’m fine.”

“Alright, lobster boy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He tosses the bottle toward him. It slips through Oscar’s fingers and hits the deck with a dull thud. Lando laughs. “Great reflexes, future world champion.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but can’t stop his mind from drifting to thoughts of Lando’s hands on him, the applying the sunscreen for him.

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” Lando says, tossing a towel over his shoulder.

“Pretty sure I always look like that,” Oscar deflects.

“Fair.” Lando’s smile softens before he straightens. “You’ll have to join me for a swim later.”

Oscar swallows. “Yeah, maybe.”

Later, Oscar finds himself sitting beside Alexandra as Lily cuts up some pieces of mango. Alexandra asks him sincerely, “Are you having fun Oscar?”

“Yeah,” he answers around a mouthful of mango.

“Yes, Lando is good at bringing people together,” she adds, like it’s a simple truth.

Oscar’s chest tightens faintly. “Yeah, he is.”

The group decides to anchor for a bit, letting the boat drift lazily in the open water. The sea around them glows turquoise, calm enough that the reflections look like glass. Someone tosses a float into the water, and Daniel immediately dives in after it, splashing George and Carmen in the process.

Oscar moves to stand near the edge, half laughing as he watches the chaos unfold.

Daniel’s shouting, demanding Lando to get in the water. Lando groans, muttering something about “babysitting grown men,” and starts tugging off his shirt. Oscar looks away too late, heart catching somewhere behind his ribs.

“Right, time to swim,” Lando calls suddenly, clapping his hands once before he runs and cannonballs into the sea.

Lando’s skin catches the late light. Oscar tells himself not to look but it’s impossible not to. His gaze catches on the lines of Lando’s shoulders, the smooth stretch of his back muscles flexing as he moves, the shriek of laughter spilling from his mouth as he enters the water.

Lando breaks back through the surface of the water, shaking his head as droplets spray out in a small arc. His hair is plastered to his forehead, eyes bright with that familiar spark that always seems to find Oscar first. He wipes a hand over his face and through his hair, pushing the wet curls off his face. The late afternoon sun slides across his skin, catching the curve of his jaw, the rise of his chest, the smooth flex of his shoulders as he treads water.

Oscar should look away, this is not how people look at their friends. The moment stretches, too long, too aware, and Oscar forces his eyes down, taking a sharp sip of his drink that doesn’t help.

Lando dives beneath the surface again, his body cutting cleanly through the water before vanishing under the glare of the sun. When he reappears with a grin that’s too bright, droplets rolling down his face and over the smooth line of his shoulders, Oscar feels it, that rush of warmth he keeps pretending isn’t there.

A low voice beside him says, “You like him, no?”

Oscar jumps a little, turning to find Charles standing nearby, arms loosely crossed, gaze still fixed on the water.

“What?” he says, far too quickly.

Charles doesn’t even look at him, just smiles faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You do. It is obvious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Lando,” Charles says it likes it’s obvious. “You like him.”

“No.” Oscar shakes his head. “Uh no, definitely not. I mean Lando’s not… we’re not… uh no,” Oscar stops he sees the small smile on Charles’ face at his rambling. “We’re just friends.”

“Friends,” Charles repeats quietly, as if testing the word. “Mm, maybe.”

“It’s true,” Oscar insists, eyes fixed on the waves. “We hang out sometimes, that’s all.”

Charles hums softly, non-committal. “If you say so.”

Oscar can feel him looking now, that quiet, knowing glance that doesn’t need to say anything else. “It’s not like that,” he says again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

Charles nods slowly, thoughtful. “You know,” he says after a moment, “no one would judge you if it was.”

Oscar glances over, caught off guard. “No one?” He says thinking of the millions of people who would most definitely have an opinion. 

“Okay, no one that matters to you or Lando would judge,” Charles’ tone is gentle, certain. “You’re not doing anything wrong by caring about someone. Especially him, Lando… he would not hate you for it.”

Oscar swallows, his throat tight. “It’s not…” He breaks off, dragging a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter because we’re just friends.”

Charles tilts his head slightly. “It matters to you.”

Oscar exhales a quiet laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Charles studies him for a moment longer, then says softly, “You don’t have to say anything. Just know that sometimes we cannot choose who we feel things for. We can only choose how we act.”

Oscar doesn’t know how to respond to that. He just nods faintly, staring out at the sea where Lando’s laughing with Daniel and Max, all easy brightness and movement.

Charles gives a small, reassuring smile and pats his shoulder. “It’s alright, mon ami. You have a good heart, don’t be ashamed of that. And if you ever need someone to talk to that’s not Lando, you can talk to me.” Then he turns, heading back toward the others.

Oscar stays where he is for a moment, the warmth of Charles’ hand lingering faintly through the fabric of his shirt. He watches as Lando climbs back onto the deck, the sound of his laughter carrying over the water.

“Just friends,” Oscar murmurs under his breath. But the words sound thinner every time he says them.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps and sees that Lando has finished hauling himself back onto the deck, water dripping from his hair as he shakes himself out like a wet dog, grinning when he gets yells of annoyance as he’s getting everyone soaked.

Lando glances around, spots Oscar standing off to the side, and his grin widens. “You’re still dry,” he calls. “Can’t have that.”

Oscar laughs weakly, pretending to roll his eyes. “I’m fine here, thanks.”

Lando doesn’t seem convinced. “Nah, come on. It’s not a proper day out till everyone’s been in.”

“I’m good,” Oscar says again, raising his drink as proof.

“Wrong answer.”

Lando’s already moving toward him, all mischief and sunlit confidence. By the time Oscar realises what’s happening, Lando’s grabbed his wrist, the chill of his wet skin shocking against Oscar’s arm.

“Lando, wait…”

“Too late.”

Lando tugs him forward, laughing as Oscar stumbles after him, nearly spilling his drink. Before he can protest again, Lando loops an arm around his waist and they’re both in the air, a flash of blue and gold before the water closes over them.

It’s cold and sharp, stealing Oscar’s breath for a second. When he resurfaces, sputtering, Lando’s already there, laughter spilling out of him in uneven bursts.

“You…” Oscar starts, pushing the water out of his face. “You could’ve warned me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Lando says, grinning so wide it’s impossible to stay annoyed.

He flicks a handful of water at Lando, who retaliates automatically, splashing back until they’re both laughing again. Lando dives toward him, catching his arm and pulling him under for half a second before they both surface, gasping and breathless.

“Unfair,” Oscar says, shoving at his shoulder.

“You’re just too slow,” Lando teases. “Come on,” he says, head tilted to where the others are all floating around, already swimming toward them.

The water is warm against Oscar’s skin, the lowering sun creating ripples across the surface in patterns that shimmer gold. He has been swimming for a while now, joining in with Lando, Daniel, George and Alex as they splash each other, laughing, trying to knock one another off the float that Daniel threw in earlier. The laughter comes easy, the world beyond this stretch of sea forgotten.

Lando dives under and disappears for a beat too long. Oscar’s heart stutters before Lando surfaces behind him, hands catching Oscar’s shoulders and dragging him back with a triumphant yell. They both go under with a splash, saltwater burning their eyes.

When they surface, they’re still close. Lando’s hand finds the curve of Oscar’s shoulder to steady himself, the other brushing across his arm. The contact feels almost electric.

“You know,” Lando says, breathless, water streaming down his hair. “I didn’t think you’d last this long today, I know being around so many people and having to be social all the time isn’t really your forte.”

Oscar laughs, pushing a wet curl out of his eyes. “Yeah I know. Maybe you underestimated me.”

“Maybe,” Lando says, and it’s quieter now, voice softer with something that makes Oscar’s chest feel tight. His hands have trailed down from Oscar’s shoulders to his arms, thumb drifting absently across Oscar’s arm, drawing a slow, unconscious line through the droplets of water.

Oscar’s aware of everything, the heat of the sun, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull, the way Lando’s chest rises and falls too close to his. He turns to say something, anything, but his hand brushes Lando’s stomach instead, fingertips meeting sun warmed skin and accidentally trailing the smooth outline of Lando’s abdominal muscles.

Lando laughs lightly, catching Oscar’s wrist before he can pull it back. “Careful, that tickles.”

Oscar stammers something that doesn’t sound like words, his face burning even as the water cools around them. The brief press of Lando’s fingers on his wrist sends a jolt straight to his groin. He feels the heat rush to his cheeks at his cock stirring beneath the clinging fabric of his swim trunks, starting to harden with an insistent pulse that Oscar tries to ignore. Oscar’s embarrassed to realise that a simple, innocent touch from Lando has caused his body to react this way.

But as Lando’s body lingers near, the heat radiating from his skin and the casual strength in his grip, Oscar realises he needs to get away from Lando otherwise his body’s reaction was only going to intensify.

He jolts back suddenly, Lando smiling at him oddly as he gently lets go of his wrist.

“Relax,” Lando says, his grin easing back into something playful. “You’re jumpier than Daniel’s dog.”

Oscar forces a laugh, ducking his head to hide the flush creeping down his neck, the aching hardness between his legs still throbbing with unwelcome arousal. “Just cold.”

Lando doesn’t seem to notice the lie. He floats back, kicking lazily, sunlight catching on the drops of water running down his chest.

Oscar tries to breathe past the knot in his throat, but the closeness lingers. He mumbles something about heading back to the boat, and Lando calls after him, something teasing, but Oscar pretends he doesn’t hear, swimming away quickly to conceal the bulge tenting in his swim trunks.

Oscar climbs the ladder back onto the deck, every muscle in his body tight with embarrassment. Charles catches his eye from across the deck as Oscar steps back onboard, and Oscar knows without a word that he’s already read everything on his face.

Oscar pointedly ignores him as he sits down as far away from Charles as he can, drapes his towel over his lap, and pretends to watch the horizon. But all he sees is the water, the sunlight, and the shape of Lando’s smile still burned behind his eyelids.

He tells himself it’s nothing, that he’s just tired, he’s just overthinking. But the truth is harder to ignore now.

By the time the laughter from the water fades and the boat starts drifting back toward the marina, Oscar sits quietly at the back of the deck, towel wrapped around his shoulders. The air cools as the sun lowers, painting the sea orange and gold.

He watches Lando climb back aboard, dripping and smiling, shaking water from his curls as everyone cheers. He looks effortlessly alive, like the sun itself decided to rest on him.

Oscar looks down, his throat tight.

He doesn’t know when it was within the last few months that it happened, maybe in Japan when Lando made him feel alive for the first time in months, maybe during one of those late night conversations in hotel lobbies, or maybe when Lando looked at him and made him feel like he’s the only person that mattered.

But it’s undeniable now. Oscar Piastri has feelings for Lando Norris. He’s completely and utterly gone for the older man.

And he knows, with a dull certainty, that there’s nothing he can do about it. Lando made it clear that morning that they are just friends. That’s all they’ll ever be.

So Oscar swallows it down, this thing he has only just named, and tells himself he can live with it, he has to, even if every part of him knows he’s lying.

Chapter Text

The drive back from the marina is quiet, the air surrounding them feels heavy but not uncomfortable. The radio hums softly, playing something slow and half familiar. Oscar sits in the passenger seat, skin still warm and pink from the sun, salt drying tight against his collarbone. Lando drums his fingers on the wheel in rhythm, glancing over every so often like he’s thinking of something but not quite ready to say it.

When they arrive back at Lando’s apartment complex, the sky outside is bruised with dusk, that soft lilac stretch over the coast that makes Monaco look almost peaceful.

Lando stretches as he gets out of the car. “You good to help with dinner?”

Oscar nods, trailing him inside. “Sure.”

Once inside, Oscar is hit with a smell that he hates is already starting to feel familiar, something citrus and minty, maybe the detergent from Lando’s laundry. Lando’s already halfway to the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp at the ends from the swim. He moves around easily, pulling pans from cupboards, humming off key.

Oscar leans against the counter, watching him bustle. There’s something disarming about Lando when he’s like this, unguarded and domestic. The world champion who, just hours ago had been diving off a yacht, now stands barefoot on tiles, grinning at the contents of his fridge as he moves side to side to a rhythm in his head.

“Alright,” Lando says, holding up a bag of pasta like a trophy. “Carbonara. Or well, my version of it. It’s edible, mostly.”

Oscar laughs, soft. “Mostly?”

“I haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Lando grins, tossing him a chopping board. “You can handle the garlic this time.”

They fall into a quiet rhythm, knives clinking faintly, the smell of garlic and onion filling the air. Lando talks, about the boat, about how Daniel tried to out swim him, about Charles nearly losing his sunglasses overboard. He talks in that effortless stream that seems to fill the room by itself.

Oscar hums along, nodding, smiling when Lando looks at him, but his mind drifts. He keeps thinking about the way the sunlight had hit Lando’s hair earlier, about how his laughter carried across the water, how the day had felt like something suspended outside of time.

“Best day I’ve had in ages,” Lando says, turning to drain the pasta. “Everyone was relaxed for once. No press, no cameras. Just fun.”

Oscar makes a small noise of agreement.

“You had fun, right?”

Oscar glances up from where he’s setting plates on the table. “Hm?”

“Today,” Lando clarifies, still facing the stove. “On the yacht. You had fun?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says quickly. “I did. It was good.”

“Good?” Lando twists around, one eyebrow raised, spatula in hand. “Just good?”

Oscar can’t help the small smile that tugs at his mouth. “Fine. Great.”

“That’s better.” Lando turns back to the stove, but his tone is softer now, less teasing. “Because, I don’t know, you were kind of quiet. I thought maybe you weren’t really having a good time.”

Oscar hesitates, the question catching him off guard. “What makes you think that?”

Lando shrugs, removing the pot from the stove to drain the pasta. “You just looked like you’d rather be anywhere else at times. And I know the others can be a lot, loud, all over the place and talking nonsense half the time. I kind of felt like I’d dragged you into something you didn’t want to do.”

Oscar blinks, thrown by the sincerity in his voice. “You didn’t. I had fun Lando, I promise. And everyone was really nice.”

Lando hums, still not quite convinced. “You sure? Because if I’m ever being pushy, just tell me. I forget sometimes that not everyone likes the noise.”

Oscar’s chest tightens, something warm curling low in his stomach. “You weren’t pushy,” he says quietly. “I liked it. Being there.”

Lando glances over his shoulder, studying him for a beat longer than necessary. Whatever he sees seems to ease him. The corners of his mouth lift, soft and genuine. “Good.”

Lando turns back to the pasta, voice lighter again, a teasing lilt to it. “Cassie thought so too.”

Oscar blinks. “Cassie?”

“Alex’s friend. Blonde, bit loud. Saw you chatting to her for a bit. She asked  me about you.”

Oscar’s knife slows. “She did?”

“Said you were cute actually. She wanted to know if you were single.” Lando’s smirk is playful, but his eyes flicker, gauging Oscar’s reaction.

Oscar stares at the countertop, heat creeping up his neck. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Lando chuckles. “That’s it? Oh?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t know, most people would say something like ‘she’s nice’ or ‘tell her I said hi’. Most people would jump at that.”

Oscar picks at the edge of the tablecloth, pretending to be fascinated by the pattern. “She’s nice,” he says lamely.

Lando laughs, shaking his head as he plates up their food. “You’re hopeless.”

Oscar tries to smile, but his chest feels tight again. He wonders if Lando really brought it up because Cassie said something, or if it’s just his way of nudging things back into a normal friendship zone with a topic of conversation that Oscar imagines friends would normally talk about.

When Lando sets the plate down in front of Oscar, he’s still smiling, easy and bright like nothing’s changed.

Oscar smiles back, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. But somewhere beneath the warmth and the chatter, the thought lingers, that maybe Lando’s teasing isn’t teasing at all, but a quiet attempt to make sure Oscar knows where the line is in their friendship. And maybe that hurts a little more than it should.

…

Dinner winds down slowly. The kitchen is warm and golden, light spilling from the overheads onto their half empty plates and the faint mess they’ve made. Lando’s perched sideways on his chair, twisting a fork between his fingers while Oscar leans back in his chair, full but restless.

Every now and then Lando glances up at him, those quick, assessing looks that always make Oscar feel seen and slightly exposed.

Lando sets his fork down, clearly his throat lightly. “So,” he says, that casual tone that never really means casual. “Are you going to text Cassie? I mean she seemed pretty keen on you.”

Oscar lets out a quiet breath. “Probably not.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, genuinely curious. “She seemed pretty great from what I saw today. She’s gorgeous. And Alex vouches for her, and I always trust his judgement.”

There’s a beat of silence. The air shifts. Lando’s tone is easy, but his eyes stay on Oscar’s, patient and waiting.

Oscar looks down, fingers twisting the hem of his t-shirt. “I just… I don’t really…” Oscar just shrugs, a small awkward laugh leaving his mouth.

Lando tilts his head, curiosity cutting through. “Is she not your type?”

Oscar lets out another small laugh, “no, I guess not.”

Lando leans back in his chair, gentle curiosity still etched on his face. “So, can I ask what is your type then?”

Oscar stares at the knife in his hand. He hesitates. There’s a long beat where he could laugh it off, deflect, change the subject. Instead, he takes a slow breath and says, “not women.”

Lando blinks once. “Oh.” The surprise on his face is brief, gone as quickly as it appears. His expression softens, voice even. “You mean…”

“Yeah,” Oscar says quickly, before he can lose the nerve. “I’m gay.”

Lando doesn’t flinch, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even blink. He just nods once, expression easy. “Okay, cool.”

Oscar lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “Cool?”

Lando’s lip twitch into a half smile. “What, you want me to react loudly and be shocked? Because I can if you need it. Bit of a gasp, maybe a dramatic clutch at my chest?”

Oscar laughs, the tension in his shoulder easing. “No, I don’t want that.”

“Good,” Lando says, grin widening. “Because I’d rather just be normal about it. You’re still Oscar, you being gay doesn’t change that.”

Oscar’s smile lingers, softer now. “Thanks Lando.”

Lando shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Don’t thank me for being decent. I’m glad you felt like you could tell me.”

“Yeah, I don’t really say it often,” he admits. “It’s not something I hide, I mean my family all knows, it’s just not something…”

“That needs to be public knowledge?” Lando finishes for him, voice gentle.

Oscar looks up, meeting Lando’s eyes. “Yeah, pretty much.” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “Karting and racing… I learned pretty quickly that it’s not the easiest place for that kind of thing. Everyone’s friendly enough, and most teams say they’d be supportive and allies, but people talk. And once something like that gets out, you can’t pull it back in.”

Lando nods slowly, “I know. The paddock’s a village with microphones.”

Oscar smiles faintly at the phrasing, but it fades quickly. “I don’t want me being gay to be what people see first. I want them to see the driver, not a headline.”

Lando leans forward. “Trust me, I know what you mean. But if anyone did make it a headline, it’d say more about them than it did about you.”

Oscar glances at him, heart tripping a little. “You’re surprisingly good at this whole supportive thing.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” Lando’s grin turns mischievous as he kicks at Oscar’s foot under the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “So, back to my question then, do you have a type? Any previous boyfriends I should know about?”

Oscar’s face flushes almost immediately, he shakes his head slowly. “Ah no. No boyfriends. I never really had the time.”

“Not even a crush?”

“Plenty of crushes,” Oscar says, smiling faintly. “Just… they never went anywhere.”

Lando studies him for a second. “Why not?”

Oscar sighs, fiddling with his fork. “I moved to England when I was twelve for racing. Boarding school, long days, weekends at tracks. My whole teenage life was cars and homework and trying not to fall asleep in class. I guess relationships just… didn’t fit anywhere.”

Lando’s expression softens. “That’s rough.”

“It’s what I wanted,” Oscar says, shrugging. “And I don’t regret it. But sometimes I think maybe I missed the bit where people figure themselves out, you know? I was always the kid leaving early, missing parties, skipping stuff for karting. Everyone else was learning to date, to kiss, to screw things up and try again. I was learning tyre pressure.”

Lando laughs quietly, but it’s gentle, not mocking. “That’s one way to put it.”

Oscar looks down at his plate. “I guess I worry I missed my chance to… I don’t know. Be normal about this kind of stuff. Like, everyone’s got experiences and stories. I don’t. I went from being the kid who couldn’t even sneak out past curfew to flying halfway across the world trying not to crash a car worth millions of dollars.”

Lando chuckles softly. “Bit of a jump.”

“Yeah.” Oscar glances up, hesitant. “I mean, I kissed some of the guys back in boarding school, and a few girls, kind of how I figured out I preferred kissing guys.” He laughs, Lando softly joining in. “But that’s it. I’ve never gone any further than that, with anyone. I’ve never been in a relationship. Never had anyone look at me like that.”

Lando leans back, frowning slightly. “Oscar.”

“What?”

“You know that’s not something you need to be ashamed or embarrassed about right? There’s no time limit for this stuff,” he says. “You didn’t miss out on anything. You just… prioritised something else. And that’s fine. You’ll figure everything else out when it feels right.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. “That easy, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Lando says with a small smile. “When it does happen for you, it’ll make sense. I promise.”

Oscar forces a weak smile back. “You sound sure.”

“I am,” Lando says. “Trust me. It took me long enough to figure my own shit out myself.”

Oscar looks at him, surprised by the openness in Lando’s voice. “You?”

“Yeah.” Lando grins, faintly self-deprecating. “I worked out pretty early on like I liked both guys and girls. Guess that makes me bisexual if I had to put a label on it.”

Oscar blinks. “Really?”

“Yep.” Lando props his chin on his hand, smirking. “Shocking, right?”

“No,” Oscar says honestly. “Just… didn’t know.”

Lando shrugs. “Most people don’t. Like you mentioned before, it’s not exactly something you want to lead with.”

“Yeah.”

Lando smiles, crooked and rueful. “Guess what I’m saying it, don’t rush it. You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself you that you’re not ready to give yet.”

“How did you figure it out?”

Lando leans forward on his elbows, eyes unfocused as if he’s rewinding his own memories. “It wasn’t some grand moment of self-discovery or anything. I didn’t sit down one day and think, ‘right, I’m bi.’ It was a lot messier than that. And it took months of me being all up in my head and an anxious mess before I really came to terms with the fact I was also into men.”

Oscar studies him quietly, the faint hum of kitchen appliances filling the space between them.

“I was sixteen,” Lando continues, tone easy but careful, like he’s walking through something private which Oscar supposes, he probably is. “I’d kissed girls, had crushes on girls, a couple of girlfriends. Being with girls felt great, it didn’t feel like I was missing out on anything and honestly at the time I’d never even looked at another guy twice. And then one of my best mate kissed me.”

“Max?” Oscar questions.

Lando bursts into laughter, full and bright. “What? No! No it wasn’t Max. Why does everyone always assume Max when I tell them I’m bi.”

Oscar grins, a little defensively. “Sorry, you two have just always seemed close.”

“Yeah, but not that close,” Lando says, still laughing. “Max is like by brother. Plus he’s straight, very straight.”

Oscar laughs too, but something in his chest feels lighter now as he watches Lando be so open, so at ease as he talks about this with Oscar.

“Anyway,” Lando says, calming wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “My first kiss with a guy wasn’t Max. It was with someone I’d known since we were kids, went to school together, our families were friends. We were hanging out at his place after one of my races and he just kissed me,” Lando shrugs, a small smile on his face. “It felt like it came completely out of nowhere, he just leaned over and kissed me.”

Oscar’s eyebrows lift slightly. “And?”

Lando laughs under his breath. “And I kissed him back. Didn’t even think about it, just did. Then spent the rest of the week pretending it didn’t happen and internally losing my mind.”

Oscar can’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth. “Did it change things?”

“Yeah,” Lando says softly. “It did. I started noticing things I hadn’t before. How I looked at other males, how I felt around them. I started noticing that the way I felt around girls, I also felt around guys. And it terrified me.”

Lando pauses for a beat, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I think the hardest part, the thing that had me going around in circles in my head, it wasn’t me admitting that I liked men to myself, it was the thought of other people finding out. I was terrified about people finding out. I was just starting to make a name for myself in the racing world, had signed on for formula 2 and just signed the contract as McLaren’s rookie development driver. So I can definitely relate to you Osc when you mentioned not wanting your sexuality to be the thing people see in you above all else.”

They’re silent for a minute, Lando getting up to refill both their drinks. When he returns, the grin is back on his face. “Then my parents walked in on me snogging a guy in the kitchen when I was twenty.”

Oscar, mid drink, chokes out a laugh. “What?”

“Yeah,” Lando admits, mock solemn. “Kind of my own fault, I thought they were away for the weekend but hadn’t actually confirmed that with them. Brought a guy home, they walked in whilst he had me pinned against the fridge. Mum just let out this weird squealing sound and Dad just stood there for a solid minute before saying, ‘I’ll get some beer’ and walking out.”

Oscar laughs, properly laughs, nearly doubled over. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was,” Lando says, laughing too.

“How did your parents take it?”

“They just needed a minute. I think they were more shocked that I actually had the nerve to kiss someone under their roof than it being a guy. But as it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. They were good about it, great even. Nothing changed, I wasn’t treated any differently. Well except a whole lot of teasing from my sisters and them wanting to discuss boys with me.”

“Yeah I know how that feels,” Oscar laughs.

The laughter fades into a softer kind of silence. Oscar looks at Lando, at the way the light from the kitchen haloed against his hair, the easy openness of his smile. It’s strange, how easy Lando makes it to talk about things Oscar never really talks about, how safe Oscar feels to do so, how safe Lando makes Oscar feel.

“Thanks,” Oscar says quietly.

“For what?”

“For not making it weird.”

Lando’s voice softens. “It’s because it’s not weird Osc. You trusted me with something that matters. I’m glad you felt like you could.”

Oscar looks down, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

Lando bumps his foot under the table again, light and familiar. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing fine. You don’t have to rush into any of it. Just… let it happen when it feels right.”

Oscar nods, but inside, his mind whispers something he doesn’t dare say aloud, that it already does.

…

London feels colder than it should. The rain hasn’t stopped for days, the steady drizzle running down the windowpane like the city itself is exhaling. Oscar sits at his desk, the dull glow of his laptop lighting his face, data logs open but unread. He’s supposed to be reviewing simulator output, he’s supposed to be focused. Instead, he’s staring at nothing. He’s been back in London for a few days now but his mind was still stuck back in Monaco.

The Imola Grand Prix is up next but Oscar won’t be attending, instead having been rostered on for simulator sessions at Alpine’s base. It’s a relief, in a hollow sort of way. Knowing that he has three weeks before he has to see Lando again. Three weeks to try and forget the almost kiss and the feeling of Lando’s hands on him. Three weeks to try and get his newly admitted feelings under control.

He tells himself that he needs the space, that it’ll be good for his friendship with Lando. That it’s better to take a step back so he can clear his head. To remember who he was before Lando made everything feel too bright, too easy, too dangerous.

So when his phone buzzes with a text from Lando, Oscar just flips the phone face down on his desk, breath catching for a beat before he forces himself to refocus on the glowing numbers onscreen.

Lando still texts over the next week. Nothing heavy, just small things like memes or jokes he thinks Oscar would like, small updates, and links to race clips. Oscar types replies and deletes them. He doesn’t end up responding, he just keeps telling himself that it’s better this way, that space will make it easier. That if he can just step back far enough, the feelings might start to fade.

One night, Lando calls. The sound catches Oscar off guard. He stares at the screen, thumb hovering over the green button. The ringing keeps going, echoing in the small apartment until it stops.

Thirty seconds later, another message appears. ‘Everything okay? You’ve gone quiet’.

Oscar swallows. The guilt comes heavy, sharp. He sets the phone aside, he’ll answer tomorrow.

Over the next week, the pattern repeats. Messages trickle in, light, teasing, patient. Oscar laughs when he reads some of them, soft and tired, and then hates himself for it. He knows he’s being unfair. Lando hasn’t done anything wrong. If anything, he’s been the kindest, most genuine person in Oscar’s orbit since he joined the sport. But that’s exactly why he can’t do this. He can’t keep getting pulled deeper when it’s not going anywhere.

When Lando calls again a few nights later, Oscar answers without thinking.

“Oscar,” Lando says immediately, relief thick in his voice. “Christ, I was starting to think you’d vanished.”

“Sorry, I’ve just been busy,” Oscar lies, guilt fluttering through him.

“Busy, huh? Let me guess simulator, data, tyre degs,” Lando lists off jokingly. “Am I in the right ballpark?”

Oscar forces a small laugh, “yeah.”

There’s a pause. Lando’s tone shifts, quieter now. “You okay Osc?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

Oscar looks out the window at the city lights, the grey sky beyond. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Lando hums softly. “Okay. Well, if you need anything… you can always talk to me. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

Neither of them speak for a few seconds. The silence is full of all the words Oscar can’t bring himself to say. He wants to tell him that hearing his voice makes it worse, that it feels like pressing on a bruise he doesn’t want to heal. He wants to tell him that he’s trying, really trying, not to think about how Lando’s laugh sounds when they’re alone, or how his eyes had flicked down to his mouth that night in the kitchen.

Instead, he just says, “I should go. I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Right, yeah, of course.” There’s something faint in Lando’s tone, disappointment, maybe. “Talk soon?”

“Yeah,” Oscar lies.

When the call ends, he sits in the dark, staring at the phone still warm in his hand. He knows Lando means it, that he really would pick up if Oscar ever needed him. But that’s the problem, he’s already starting to need him too much.

…

Later when Oscar reaches the Alpine base for his scheduled simulator sessions, the sky has dulled to a wet grey. The glass doors reflect back his own tired face, the lanyard hanging limp around his neck. Inside, the fluorescent lights hum too loud, and the smell of coffee and machine oil clings to everything.

He changes into his team kit and heads straight to the simulator bay. Hours pass in loops of corner data and telemetry. The hum of the rig, the steady rotation of the virtual track, the clipped instructions from the engineers through his headset, it’s the same routine he’s lived for months. Familiar, repetitive, safe.

“Good work, Oscar,” one of them says through the radio. “We’ll log this run and break for a bit.”

He takes off the headset, stretching his neck. His eyes sting from the glow of the monitors.

Before he can even stand, a knock comes at the glass door. One of the admin assistants pops her head around the door. “Hey Oscar, management are asking to speak with you in meeting room two.”

Oscar’s stomach twists. “Uh okay, thanks.”

Dread fills Oscar’s body. Meetings sprung out of nowhere rarely mean anything good. As he walks down the narrow corridor towards meeting room two, his palms are damp. His mind is spiralling through possibilities, none of which are positive.

The sound of voices behind the door makes his chest feel too tight. He forces a breath, schooling his expression and pretends he isn’t seconds away from being sick.

However when he opens the door and finds Mark Webber already inside, sitting at the far end of the room, sleeves rolled up, tension radiating off him like heat, he physically feels his heart sink.

Sitting opposite him are two of Alpine’s senior management, crisp shirts, polite smiles that don’t reach their eyes. “Oscar,” one of them says with a nod. “Take a seat.”

Oscar does slowly, taking the seat next to Mark, his limbs feeling like lead.

“We wanted to speak with you about next season,” the other says, folding his hands. “You’ve done excellent work as reserve driver. The feedback from engineering and simulator staff has been exceptional.”

Oscar nods once. “Thank you.”

The man smiles, the kind of smile that feels practised. “We’d like to offer you an extension. Another year in the reserve role. We believe it’s the right move for your development.”

For a second, Oscar thinks he must have misheard. ‘Reserve extension’.

It hangs in the air like static, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. He blinks, forcing a nod that feels automatic. Another year. Another year of waiting. Another year of sitting on the sidelines, watching someone else drive his car.

Mark’s jaw tightens. “Another year?”

“Yes,” the first man says smoothly. “We see tremendous potential in Oscar. We think another year with the team will only strengthen that foundation.”

Mark leans forward, voice sharp. “You’ve been saying that for two years now.”

“Mark…”

“No,” Mark snaps, cutting him off. “Don’t start with your PR crap. You promised him a seat. You told us you would get him in the main team, that he was next in line. And now you’re sitting here offering him another bloody reserve contract?”

The air in the room tightens. The men exchange a quick glance. Oscar stays still, eyes fixed on the table. He doesn’t trust his voice. They’re not going to give him a seat. Not next year. Maybe not ever.

His fingers curl into fists on the armrest of the chair, nails pressing half-moons into his palms. He keeps his gaze fixed on the table, afraid that if he looks up, they’ll see exactly what’s written on his face, the exhaustion, the disappointment, the sharp sting of humiliation that burns behinds his eyes.

He should say something, he should fight, stand up for himself. But any argument he can think of falls apart before it can really form. What’s the point? They’ve already decided.

Someone slides a glossy folder towards him. Reserve Driver – Contract Extension is written across the front in bold font. Words that are meant to sound comforting. He stares at it but doesn’t reach for it.

Voices cuts through the fog, louder now and sharp around the edges.

“Oscar’s still young. There’s no rush…”

“Don’t patronise me,” Mark bites out. “Or him. He’s done everything you’ve asked. Every sim run, every test session, every late night. He’s put your drivers through their paces and helped them score points. And you repay that by keeping him benched?”

“We understand your frustration…”

“No, you don’t,” Mark snaps. “You don’t understand a thing. You’ve made promise after promise, dangled the same bloody carrot for two seasons, and now you’re expecting him to just jump at the chance to sit in the corner for another bloody year?”

The first man exhales. “Mark, we value Oscar immensely. But we have to make strategic choices for the team’s future. We’re confident that another year of experience will position him perfectly when the time comes.”

Mark laughs, low and incredulous. “The time never comes with you lot.”

“Please, calm down…”

“I won’t calm down,” Mark says, slamming a hand on the table. “You’re wasting his career.”

Silence stretches. The second man finally turns to Oscar, tone falsely gentle. “We think this is a fantastic opportunity, Oscar. A smart choice. You’d be stupid not to take it.”

Mark scoffs, loud. “He’d be stupid to stay.”

Stupid, Oscar thinks, maybe he already is.

He just nods, because that’s what he’s good at, keeping calm, being professional, smiling when everything in him is screaming.

“Can I think about it?” He finally says, voice low and devoid of anything that might indicate how he is feeling.

The men exchange another glance. “Of course. But we’ll need an answer soon.”

When the meeting finally ends, Oscar stands on unsteady legs. His face hurts from holding the same polite expression for too long. He shakes hands, says thank you, and leaves before they can see how much it’s cost him.

Mark walks beside him, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. Two bloody years, and they still treat you like a placeholder.”

Oscar keeps his head down, voice low. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Mark says sharply. “You deserve better. You’ve earned better.”

Oscar gives a weak smile. “That doesn’t seem to matter much.”

Mark stops walking, turns to him. “Don’t start thinking like that. This isn’t on you.”

“I must’ve done something wrong,” Oscar murmurs. “Said something, missed something. There has to be a reason.”

“The reason is they’re idiots,” Mark says flatly. “And I’m done playing nice. I’ll start making calls. Someone out there will see what you’re worth.”

Oscar just nods, not trusting himself to answer.

…

When he finally leaves for the evening, the sky outside is bruised purple, the car park mostly empty. He walks slowly, the air biting against his skin.

“Oscar!”

He turns. Esteban is jogging over, still in team gear. “Hey, I heard you had a meeting earlier. They tell you yet?”

“Tell me what?” Oscar asks.

Esteban grins. “About the seat! I just signed with another team for next season. Figured they told you they’re giving it to you. That’s why they called you in, no?”

Oscar’s heart stutters. “No. They offered me another year as reserve.”

Esteban’s smile falters. “Wait, seriously?”

Oscar nods, forcing a small, empty smile. “Yeah. Guess that’s what they think is best.”

Esteban’s expression shifts, awkward now. “Mate, I’m… I’m sorry. I thought for sure…”

“It’s fine,” Oscar cuts in, voice steady but flat. “Congrats on the move, though.”

“Thanks,” Esteban says softly. “You deserve that seat, Oscar. Everyone knows it.”

Oscar just nods again. “See you around.” He walks away before Esteban can say anything else.

The drive back to his flat is a blur of headlights and rain. By the time he gets inside, the exhaustion hits like a wave. He drops his bag by the door, stands in the quiet, listening to the faint buzz of the fridge.

He should feel angry. Instead, he just feels empty.

He showers, dresses, sits on the edge of the bed and scrolls mindlessly through his phone when Lando’s names flashes across his screen indicating an incoming call. He stares at it for a long time. He wants to answer, he wants to be comforted by Lando’s warmth but if he hears Lando’s voice right now, he’ll break.

The phone keeps ringing. Oscar’s thumb hovers over the green icon, then shifts to the red one instead. He declines the call. The screen goes dark.

He exhales, slow and shaky. The sound that escapes him doesn’t even sound like his own voice, something small and cracked open. The first tear slips down before he can stop it. Then another, and another.

He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes, but it’s useless. Weeks, maybe months, of pressure pours out of him all at once. All the pent up frustration, exhaustion, and disappointment. The sheer weight of always pretending he’s fine.

His phone buzzes again. Lando. A message this time. ‘Just checking in, call me when you can.’

Oscar’s lip trembles. He can’t bring himself to answer. Not yet. Not when he chest feels like it’s caving in. He sets the phone face down beside him on the bed and wipes his face with his sleeve before realising it’s pointless as the tears just keep coming. For once, he doesn’t try to swallow it down. He just sits there, in the quiet, and lets himself fall apart.

…

By the time Oscar arrives in Monaco for the Grand Prix a week and a half later, the streets are already stirring with crew trucks and scaffolding, flashes of orange and blue and silver lining the narrow roads. It should feel familiar by now, the hum of engines in the distance, the echo of radios and clatter of equipment. Instead, it feels like static under his skin.

He’s still avoiding Lando as much as he can, ducking out of calls, sending short replies to texts. ‘Busy. Sorry. Maybe later’. It’s childish, he knows that, but it’s easier than pretending nothing happened. Easier than having to tell Lando that he’s failed, yet again, to prove that he can make it to formula one. Easier than facing the warmth that sits too close to the surface every time he thinks of him.

When he sees the papaya blur of the McLaren hospitality ahead, his chest tightens automatically. The instinct to cross to the opposite side of the paddock is automatic, pulling his cap low. He doesn’t even have to check to know Lando’s probably out front somewhere, laughing with his team, grinning for cameras like he hasn’t got a single thing weighing on him.

Oscar’s phone buzzes in his pocket. ‘You around at all today? Want to get lunch with me?’ The message lights up the screen, Lando’s name sitting bold at the top.

Oscar stares at it until it fades to black. Then he types ‘flat out with sim data today sorry’ and continues walking in the direction of the Alpine garage.

Oscar finds himself quickly distracted once in the Alpine garage with the mechanics as they run through set up options. Oscar gives a quick smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes to a mechanic as he’s passed a document with the set ups.

“You alright, mate? You look dead on your feet.”

Oscar just shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

The mechanic nods like he understands, but there’s a line of worry between his brows. “Don’t run yourself into the ground.”

Too late, Oscar thinks. He nods anyway.

The day passes in fragments, sponsor appearances, sim work, data comparisons. He barely registers any of it. Every time he looks up, the world feels slightly tilted, like it’s moving a beat ahead of him.

At lunch, he eats alone at one of the catering tables behind the Alpine motorhome, noise from nearby garages bleeding together in the background. He picks at his food, checking his phone once, then again. There’s another text from Lando, ‘saw you walk past earlier. Didn’t even wave, rude.’

He doesn’t reply.

By the time the afternoon rolls into evening, the paddock has thinned out. The sky over the harbour burns gold, the light catching on the water and turning it into a field of glass. Oscar stops for a second to breathe, just to remember what that feels like. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He just has to keep his head down until the weekend’s over.

That’s the plan. At least it was the plan until his phone pings again. A notification banner flashes at the top of the screen.

Motorsport Weekly: Breaking — Alpine confirms rookie Franco Colapinto for 2026 F1 seat following internal review.

Oscar’s stomach drops. For a second, he’s sure he’s read it wrong. He scrolls back up, blinks, reads it again, then clicks on the article.

Motorsport Weekly: Breaking — Alpine confirms rookie Franco Colapinto for 2026 F1 seat following internal review.

By Alex Last – Motorsport Now, 3:12pm CET.

In a move that has caught the entire paddock by surprise, Alpine has officially announced Franco Colapinto as their second driver for the 2026 season. The 22 year old Argentinian, currently competing in Formula 2 with MP Motorsport, will partner with Pierre Gasly in what the team describes as “a long term commitment to developing young talent.”

Colapinto, who currently sits 7^th in the F2 standings, has impressed Alpine management with his raw pace and adaptability during recent simulator sessions. “Franco embodies the next generation of Alpine Racing,” said team principal Otmar Szafnauer. “He’s fast, analytical, and hungry to learn. We’re confident he’ll be a key part of our journey forward.”

The announcement, however, leaves questions about the future of reserve driver Oscar Piastri, who has spent the last two seasons fulfilling development and simulator duties for the team. Once considered the natural successor for a full time seat, Piastri now finds himself without a confirmed position for next season.

“It’s a bit surprising,” said one paddock insider. “Oscar’s been with Alpine for years, done everything asked of him, and consistently delivered strong results in the simulator. Many expected this seat to finally be his. It’s hard not to feel like he’s been overlooked.”

Social media echoed that sentiment within minutes of the news dropping, with fans questioning Alpine’s decision to promote another rookie instead of rewarding Piastri’s loyalty. “They’re wasting him,” read one widely shared comment. “He’s too talented to keep behind a screen.”

When reached out to for a comment, an Alpine spokesperson simply stated, “Oscar remains an important part of our programme moving forward,” but declined to elaborate on his contract status.

Franco Colapinto will begin his transition to the coveted F1 seat later this year, participating in several FP1 sessions and simulator work in preparation for his debut.

His breath catches, too fast and too shallow all at once. The screen trembles in his hand. No one had called to warn him, to prepare him for this coming out.

He looks around, but the paddock blurs, people moving like shadows through fog. There’s a roar somewhere, an engine test, probably, and the sound hits too loud. His chest tightens like a fist.

He starts walking, no real direction, just away. Away from the garages, the screens, the noise. His pulse is hammering against his ribs. The edges of his vision pulse in and out, white-hot and narrow.

He makes it to the car park before the world tilts.

The air feels wrong, too thick, too sharp, and he can’t seem to drag it into his lungs. He leans back against a parked van, hand gripping the cold metal, but his knees give way, and he slides down until he’s sitting on the asphalt.

He can hear himself breathing in short, ragged bursts that don’t feel real. It’s like someone’s cut the cord between his brain and his body. His chest heaves, hands shaking so badly he drops his phone. It hits the ground face first, skittering away. He doesn’t even move to pick it up.

There’s a rushing in his ears, like the ocean, like being underwater and trying to scream. His head spins. The world narrows to flashes, asphalt, white lines, the edge of his shoes.

And then a voice cuts through it. Low, calm and familiar.

“Oscar.”

He doesn’t look up. Can’t.

A hand lands on his shoulder, warm and steady. The pressure is enough to remind him he’s here, that this isn’t some nightmare he’s been dropped into.

“Osc, hey,” Lando says again, closer now. “Look at me.”

Oscar shakes his head or at least he thinks he does. His throat burns. “I… can’t…”

“It’s alright. You’re okay. I think you’re having a panic attack. I’ve got you, alright?” The words barely register, but Lando’s voice is calm and certain. He doesn’t sound scared. Just sure.

“Can you breathe with me?” he asks softly. “In through your nose, slow as you can.”

Oscar tries, but it’s useless. His chest jerks instead of expanding, his lungs refusing to work properly. He makes a noise, frustrated, desperate.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Lando murmurs, and his hands move, one cupping the side of Oscar’s face, the other finding his hand and guiding it up, placing it flat against Lando’s chest.

“Here,” Lando says quietly. “Right here. Feel that? That’s my heartbeat. Just focus on that.”

Oscar’s palm is pressed over the steady thump beneath the fabric of Lando’s shirt. It’s warm, solid and real. Lando’s chest rises and falls slow, deliberate.

“Match me, okay? Breathe with me. In… and out.”

Oscar stares at the ground, trying to do what he’s told. In and out. Lando’s rhythm is slow, unhurried. The sound of it begins to drown out the noise in his head, the blood rush, the hum of panic.

After a while, the world stops spinning so violently. The air starts to move through his lungs again.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, Lando kneeling in front of him, Oscar’s hand still pressed to his chest. The space between them is small, the silence filled only by the sound of two people breathing.

When Oscar finally looks up, his eyes burn. Lando’s still watching him, not pitying, not confused, just there. Grounded and solid.

Oscar swallows hard, his throat raw. “Why did you…” His voice cracks, and he tries again. “Why did you help me?”

Lando doesn’t move for a second, then exhales. “Because I’ve been there,” he says quietly. “And because I wasn’t about to leave you sitting here alone.”

Oscar blinks. “You’ve… had panic attacks?”

Lando nods. “Yeah. More than I’d like. Used to get them more when I was younger. But I still get them sometimes, if it gets bad enough.” He gives a small, crooked smile. “I’ve learned a few tricks.”

Oscar stares at him, breathing evening out bit by bit. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Lando says softly. “Oh.”

The words hang there between them, small but heavy, honest in a way that makes Oscar’s chest ache.

Lando sits back on his heels, still close enough that Oscar can see the faint tremor in his hands before he hides them in his lap. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t crowd him either, just waits. The space between them hums with something that isn’t quite silence.

Oscar drags in another breath, still shaky. His palm is still resting over Lando’s heartbeat, like he’s forgotten how to move it. The steady thud beneath his hand feels almost hypnotic, a small anchor keeping him tethered to the moment.

Eventually, he forces out, “It’s… it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t say that.” Lando cuts in, firm but quiet. “It’s not stupid.”

Oscar huffs a humourless laugh. “I’m sitting in a car park, crying over a press release.”

“Yeah,” Lando says, voice softer now. “But it’s not about the press release, is it?”

Oscar doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The truth sits heavy between them anyway.

Lando shifts, sitting down properly beside him on the asphalt. Oscar’s hand falling away as he does so. The concrete is warm from the day, faintly sticky through the fabric of their clothes.

“I saw it too,” Lando says. “That article.”

Oscar’s stomach twists. “Then you know.”

Lando nods once. “Yeah. I know.”

There’s a pause, long enough for the sound of a seagull somewhere overhead, the buzz of traffic beyond the paddock gates, to reach them.

“I knew I wasn’t getting the seat, I was told that a week ago,” Osar says quietly, ignoring the frown on Lando’s face. “But they hadn’t told me who had, or that it was coming out today. I had to find out on my phone.” His voice catches. “It would have made sense and been easier to accept if they’d signed an experienced driver, but no it was another rookie. I’ve done everything they asked for two years, and it still wasn’t enough.” His throat burns. He looks away, blinking hard. “I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

Lando’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It sure feels like I did.”

“Then that’s on them,” Lando says. There’s an edge to his voice now, anger flaring beneath the calm. “They used you. They strung you along because it was convenient. That’s not on you, Osc, that’s on them.”

Oscar stares at him, startled by the sudden fire in his tone.

Lando exhales, pushing a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just… I hate that this is happening to you. You deserved better.”

“Thanks.” The sincerity in his voice makes something in Oscar’s chest unravel. “They offered to extend my contract as their reserve driver. Told me I’d be stupid not to take it.”

Lando stares at him for a long second, disbelief written clear across his face. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” He tries to laugh but it catches somewhere in his throat. “I just sat there when they handed me the contract. I didn’t even say anything. Mark did most of the talking. I think he was angrier than I was.”

Lando shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry this is happening Osc. It’s not fair, and judging by social media’s reaction, they all know it too.”

Oscar gives a small, helpless smile. “Doesn’t really matter though. Alpine made their choice and it wasn’t me.”

“It matters,” Lando says firmly. His voice is low but full of conviction. “You matter Osc. And they’re idiots if they can’t see that.”

They sit in silence for a while, the adrenaline fading into exhaustion. Lando stretches his legs out, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the horizon.

After a long moment, Oscar speaks again, quieter this time. “You said you’ve had panic attacks before.”

Lando glances at him, then nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“How did you make them stop?”

“I haven’t,” Lando says honestly. “Not completely anyway. I used to get them a lot in my first championship season. It got bad especially when I first started winning. Everyone expects you to be this…” he waves a hand, searching for the word, “machine. But I wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t switch off. My head just… wouldn’t stop.”

Oscar listens, surprised by how openly Lando’s talking.

“I’d get to the grid, and my hands would be shaking,” Lando goes on. “Heart racing, mouth dry, like I was going to throw up. You tell yourself it’s fine because you’re supposed to be fine. But it’s not. It’s just… pretending.” He laughs quietly, but there’s no humour in it. “You learn tricks to hide it. Breathing, distraction, routine. Doesn’t mean it’s gone. It just means you get better at masking it.”

Oscar swallows. “What made it better?”

Lando looks down, picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Talking, mostly. Letting people in. Took me years to do that, though. And even then, it’s still work. But it helps to know you’re not losing your mind. That it’s just your brain throwing a tantrum.”

Oscar lets out a small laugh, the sound thin but real. “A tantrum, huh?”

“Yeah,” Lando says, smiling faintly. “That’s what my therapist calls it to help me make sense of it all.”

The word therapist lands quietly, heavy but unashamed. Oscar files it away, the admission settling somewhere deep. “Therapist?”

“Yeah,” Lando nods. “I didn’t know they were panic attacks at first,” he continues. “Back in my first couple of seasons, I thought it was just… weak. That I couldn’t handle the pressure. I’d get dizzy before races, heart going crazy, like I couldn’t breathe properly. Everyone just told me it was nerves, that I’d grow out of it.”

He laughs lightly, without humour. “I didn’t. It got worse. 2021 especially was bad. It nearly broke me. I’d go home and just… sit there, knowing I should be happy, and feel absolutely nothing.”

Oscar swallows. “So you got help?”

“Yeah,” Lando nods. “Team doctor cornered me one day after a race and said I needed to talk to someone. So I did. Therapy. First few times I hated it, thought it was a waste of both mine and their time. But after a few months, it helped. They diagnosed me with anxiety, and suddenly it made sense why my brain wouldn’t shut up.”

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “I still see someone now. Regularly. I have meds too, when I need them. It’s not perfect, but it helps. I stopped pretending it wasn’t real.”

Oscar doesn’t know what to say. He feels something twist in his chest, admiration, maybe, or guilt for never realising how much Lando’s smile hides.

Lando looks over at him, meeting his eyes for a second. “It’s not weakness, you know. Getting help. Took me too long to figure that out.”

Oscar nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It doesn’t sound weak at all.”

Lando smiles faintly, the corners of his eyes softening. “Good. Because I’d really hate to be the only one admitting it.”

He glances at Lando again. “Thanks. For helping me, you didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, I did,” Lando says simply. “You shouldn’t have to go through that alone.”

They both look ahead then, the late afternoon light slipping into gold. The air smells faintly of petrol and sea salt, the world humming gently around them.

After a while, Lando nudges his shoulder. “Hey! I’ve got an idea.”

Oscar blinks. “That sounds dangerous.”

Lando grins, the tension softening. “Maybe but hear me out.” He shifts, turning to face him properly. “You’re young, you’ve got talent, but you’re stuck with a team that doesn’t see it. Well screw them. Let’s make sure they regret it.”

Oscar frowns. “What?”

“I’ll help you,” Lando says, tone suddenly serious again. “Training, prep, mental work, whatever. I’ve got resources, experience, people who can help. We’ll get you sharper, stronger. So next time someone looks your way, they can’t ignore you.”

Oscar just stares at him. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.” Lando shrugs like it’s obvious. “You deserve a fair shot. And honestly, it’d be good for me too. Keeps me from getting lazy.”

Oscar’s throat tightens again, but this time for a different reason. “You don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t.” Lando cuts him off gently. “I want to.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that feels suspended, fragile. Lando’s gaze flicks to him, searching, open.

Oscar doesn’t know what to say. He just nods slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Lando’s grin returns, softer now. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

For a moment, everything feels lighter. The tightness in Oscar’s chest eases, replaced by something steadier.

“Feeling better?” Lando asks.

Oscar nods, breathing steady now. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” Lando says softly. “Then let’s get you out of here.”

He stands, offering his hand to help Oscar up. Oscar hesitates only a second before taking it. Their palms meet, warm and solid, the contact sending a strange pulse through him that has nothing to do with adrenaline.

When Lando pulls him to his feet, he doesn’t let go straight away. The world feels still again, for just a moment.

Then Lando clears his throat, stepping back. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Oscar nods, still catching his breath, but there’s a small smile on his face now, tentative and genuine.

As they start walking, the paddock hum resumes around them, life returning to its usual rhythm. But for once, Oscar doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in it. For the first time in weeks, he feels like he can breathe. And maybe, just maybe, he’s not as alone as he thought.

Chapter Text

Lando wasn’t messing around when he said he’d help Oscar train. They start almost immediately. One session turns into two, then three, then an entire month has gone by and somewhere along the way, Oscar realises his days have started to orbit around Lando.

They train in every sense of the word, mental, physical, technical. Lando takes it seriously, more seriously than Oscar expected. He shows up every time as planned, hoodie pulled over his hair, coffee in hand, grin already in place.

“Ready Osc?” he teases, tossing Oscar a bottle of water before dropping onto the simulator seat beside him.

Oscar pretends to roll his eyes, but the nickname makes something warm flicker in his chest every time.

The mornings are often spent in the sim room at Lando’s apartments either in Monaco or in London depending on their McLaren and Alpine requirements. Lando always sitting next to him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, analysing every lap. He points out tiny details, where Oscar’s turn in is too early, where he could hold the throttle longer, where the car wants to rotate and he’s fighting it.

“Here,” Lando says one day, leaning across to reach the wheel, his hand brushing Oscar’s wrist as he shows him the correct angle. “You’re letting the car pull you too wide. Trust it to come back. Feel it through your fingertips.”

Oscar’s trying to listen, really he is, but Lando’s close enough that he can smell his cologne, something clean and citrusy, and feel the warmth radiating off him. His chest feels too tight for a moment. He nods, trying desperately to focus on the data instead of the way his pulse jumps when Lando pats his shoulder after he gets it right.

They move between sessions fluidly. Lando sits on the floor sometimes, reviewing telemetry with a pen in hand, scribbling notes on a pad like he’s back in school. “You’re braking late here,” he says, tracing the graph with his fingertip. “You’re fast enough now to be confident, but you don’t need to prove it every corner. Smooth is fast, remember that.”

Oscar smirks. “You sound like Mark.”

“Yeah, but better looking,” Lando fires back without missing a beat.

Oscar laughs, shaking his head, and Lando smiles at him, properly smiles, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s stupid how that smile makes Oscar feel like he’s done something right, even when they’re not talking about driving anymore.

Afternoons are for the gym. Lando’s more disciplined than Oscar expected, he’s relentless but fair. He doesn’t let Oscar slack, not even a little. When Oscar starts to slow, Lando’s voice cuts through his exhaustion. “Come on, one more set. You’ll thank me when you’re not dead halfway through a race.”

Sometimes Lando works out beside him, matching him rep for rep, sweat dripping down his face, shirt sticking to his back. It’s distracting in ways Oscar refuses to acknowledge. Especially when Lando’s laugh breaks the rhythm, easy and infectious, filling the space with something that feels lighter than the usual weight of their world.

During cardio, Lando jogs beside him, sometimes backwards, grinning when Oscar glares at him to stop showing off.

“You run like someone’s chasing you,” Lando jokes one morning.

Oscar huffs out a laugh. “You’d be running too if you had to keep up with you.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Other times Lando’s already there, halfway through a workout, by the time Oscar gets there. Oscar will start warming up on the treadmill and Lando will be laying on the mats, shirt off, curls damp against his forehead, doing an ab workout. Every movement precise and deliberate, a kind of practiced rhythm that Oscar can’t stop watching. Lando wipes his face with a towel, then goes straight into a set of push up, muscles shifting with the motion. Oscar eyes betray him as they track the flex of Lando’s arms, the dip of his spine as he lowers himself to the mat. It’s unfair how good he looks whilst doing this.

His pulse jumps and cheeks warm when Lando glances up mid set and catches Oscar watching him. Oscar jerks his gaze back to the treadmill display like he’s never been more interested in heartrate numbers in his life.

Lando laughs quietly under his breath, not unkind, just amused. “You good over there?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says too quickly. “Fine.”

“Sure? You’re looking a little flushed for someone whose only just started his workout.”

“Yep.”

The banter comes easy, natural. But every so often, a touch lingers longer than it should. A hand on Oscar’s back as Lando steadies him on the balance platform. Fingers brushing when they pass each other weights. Knees bumping when they collapse side by side on the gym mats, gasping for air after a sprint circuit.

Lando always looks at him then, not in a way that feels obvious, but in a way that feels seen. Like he’s looking right through Oscar’s careful composure, through the years of restraint and reserve, straight into the part of him that still aches to be good enough.

They talk, too. Not always about racing, sometimes about home. Lando talks about the early days of formula one and the mischief he would get up to with other rookie drivers, along with stories from his childhood, from learning to ride horses and hating it until his Mum finally caved to his begging and allowed him to try karting. Oscar listens, quietly, grateful for the honesty. He shares pieces of his own life in return, boarding school, family trips, stories of how he used to beat adults three to four times his age in remote control car racing.

Their days fall into a rhythm, breakfast, data analysis, simulator sessions, lunch, gym workout. Oscar starts to feel sharper, faster, stronger. He can see the improvement in the numbers, in the smoothness of his driving. But it’s not just the training that’s changing him. It’s Lando, the way he pushes without belittling, the way he listens without judging.

One afternoon, during a practice session, Oscar nails a sequence he’d been struggling with for weeks. He climbs out of the simulator to find Lando grinning, wide and proud. “I knew you could do it!”

Before Oscar can respond, Lando suddenly steps forward and pulls him into a hug. Oscar freezes for a moment before his brain catches up. Lando’s arm are around his shoulders, one hand lingering on the back of Oscar’s neck. Oscar slowly reaches out and wraps his arms around Lando’s waist. He can feel Lando’s heart beating fast against his chest, the faint heat of skin through his shirt. He swallows, trying not to overthink it, but the contact sends something through him that has nothing to do with driving.

Eventually Lando pulls back, his hand on Oscar’s neck lingers for a moment, fingers brushing the skin there softly like he’s reluctant to break the connection completely. Lando steps back, clearing his throat. “Good work,” he says, voice lighter than before.

Oscar’s throat feels dry. “Thanks,” he manages.

Evenings blur into takeaways eaten side by side on the floor of Lando’s living room, race replays on the tv screen, laughter cutting through the quiet. Sometimes they talk until the clock hits midnight, and the takeaway boxes go cold.

Oscar catches himself thinking about those moments when he’s alone later, the sound of Lando’s voice when it goes soft, the warmth that spreads through Oscar when Lando looks at him all bright eyes and crooked grin. There’s no use trying to fight it anymore, he’s not getting over these feelings for Lando anytime soon. Oscar’s not sure he even wants to anymore.

…

Oscar wasn’t expecting to hear from Lando today. The British Grand Prix was this weekend and Lando had headed up to Silverstone early yesterday for a McLaren sponsor event showcasing historic McLaren cars. Lando’s next few days were then full of more sponsorship, media and fan events thanks to being one of the few British drivers on the grid, and arguably the most sought after.

He’s halfway through reviewing telemetry when his phone buzzes, lighting up with Lando’s name. The sight makes his chest tighten, it always does. He hesitates slightly before answering, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he exhales and swipes. “Hey.”

“Oscar!” Lando’s voice bursts through the line, bright and buoyant. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Oscar blinks. “A surprise?”

“Yeah. You’re free today, right?”

“I…” He glances at the time on his laptop. “Technically, yeah. Why?”

“Good. Do you have a way to get to Silverstone at all?”

“Silverstone?” Oscar frowns. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Yes,” Oscar’s stomach flutters at the giggle Lando lets out. “Can you get here?”

“I… uh, yeah I can.”

“Great! Get dressed and bring your race boots. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me.”

“My what?”

“You heard me,” Lando says. “See you soon Osc!”

The line goes dead before Oscar can respond. He stares at his phone for a long second, torn between confusion and curiosity. Race boots. Silverstone. Lando.

He groans softly, already knowing he’s going.

The drive out to Silverstone takes a little under an hour and a half, the roads slick with morning drizzle. The clouds hang low, heavy and pale against the English countryside, the kind of weather that always reminds Oscar just how far from home he really is.

He pulls into the circuit grounds and is waved by security personnel to park near the McLaren garage. He steps out of the car and zips up his jacket, scanning the empty paddock. The air smells faintly of rubber and rain. It’s strange being here when it’s not a race weekend. He’s been to Silverstone many times before, but never like this, when it’s stripped of all its noise and colour.

“There he is!” The unmistakable voice of Lando Norris shouts across the tarmac.

Oscar turns just as Lando jogs towards him, dressed in team gear and grinning like he’s hiding the world’s biggest secret. “You made it.”

“You didn’t give me much choice,” Oscar says dryly, though his mouth twitches into a smile.

Lando shrugs. “You like a bit of mystery.”

“I like context,” Oscar corrects.

“You’ll get it,” Lando says. “Now come on.”

He starts walking toward the garages, hands shoved into his pockets, like he’s not just casually dragging Oscar into whatever this is. Oscar follows trying to swallow down the flicker of nervous anticipation in his stomach.

“What’s this about?”

“You’ll see.”

“Lando.”

“Patience, Osc,” Lando says, flashing him that boyish grin that makes Oscar roll his eyes and smile anyway.

They round the corner into the pit lane, and Oscar’s breath catches.

There, gleaming under the strip lights, sits a McLaren formula one car. Not the current car, older, sleeker, with that classic papaya and chrome finish. The McLaren MP4-30.

Oscar stops dead. “You’re kidding.”

Lando turns, eyes bright. “Surprise.”

“Is that…”

“Yeah.” Lando steps closer to the car, his hand brushing across the nose like it’s sacred. “The MP4-30. My first F1 car. Thought you might like to take her for a spin.”

Oscar stares at him. “You’re serious?”

“Dead set,” Lando says. “Zac and Andrea signed off. Legal too so it’s all good for you to go.”

Oscar blinks, still processing. “But… I can’t. My Alpine contract…”

Lando waves a hand. “Relax Osc. We’ve checked. You’re not technically testing for a competitor. It’s a heritage day, under private supervision. Legal said as long as you’re not wearing team branding, it’s fine.”

Oscar’s mouth opens and closes. “You actually talked to legal?”

“I can be responsible,” Lando says, mock offended.

“Since when?”

“Since I decided I wanted to see you drive something that deserves you,” Lando says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Come on, don’t make me regret the paperwork.”

Oscar looks back at the car, the way the papaya and chrome gleams under the lights, the faint scuff marks on the tyres, the smell of fuel thick in the air. His pulse starts to race. It’s been so long since he’s been in a formula one, or even a formula two, car. Not a simulator, not a static model, the real thing. Something that breathes.

He swallows hard. “This is insane.”

“Probably,” Lando says. “But you’re going to do this, drive super-fast, have fun and then thank me after, okay?”

“Okay,” Oscar laughs.

The garage hums with quiet energy as Oscar suits up. He borrows one of McLaren’s spare race suits, plain black, unbranded, and it feels strange pulling it on. It’s not Alpine blue. It’s not his. But it fits, and when he catches his reflection in the glass, he looks like someone he hasn’t been in a long time.

Lando’s waiting near the car, talking with a couple of engineers. Andrea Stella, McLaren’s team principal, stands nearby, clipboard in hand, and when he sees Oscar, he smiles.

“You must be Oscar?” Andrea says warmly, hand stretched out toward Oscar. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

Oscar shakes his hand, still feeling half out of place. “Yeah, you too. Thanks for… letting me do this.”

“Lando insisted,” Andrea says, eyes twinkling. “He was very persuasive.”

Oscar glances at Lando, who just shrugs. “I have my moments.”

They go through the setup, safety checks, systems, telemetry connections. Oscar listens carefully, absorbing every word, his nerves sharpening into focus. He runs his gloved hand over the car’s sidepod, feeling the smooth metal under his palm. It’s beautiful.

Lando pushes off from the pit wall and heads towards Oscar. “You nervous?”

Oscar exhales, steadying himself. “A little.”

“Good,” Lando says softly. “Means you care.”

Oscar looks up, meeting his eyes. For a moment, everything else, the engineers, the noise, the flashing lights, all fades away. It’s just the two of them.

“Oh!,” Lando shouts, quickly running into the garage before coming back with a helmet bag in his hands. “Almost forgot about this,” he says and pulls one of his old helmets from the bag. It’s Lando’s 2018 helmet, the one he wore when he won his first world driver’s championship.

The base of it is bright yellow, the colour still popping even with small scuffs and faint track wear that time has etched into it. It was helmet that started his preference for bright, fluorescent colours. The blue striping that curves around the crown of the helmet is broken up by flashes of green and white. His LN logo, bold and simple in white, runs along the side. At the back, the Union Jack peeks through the paint, muted but proud.

Oscar stares at it for a moment, suddenly aware of what it means to be trusted with something that personal. “This is your 2018 helmet,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Lando replies, a grin flickering at the edge of his mouth. “The lucky one.”

“Lucky?”

“Got me my first championship win didn’t it?” Lando says with a shrug. “Figured it might bring you some luck too.” Lando then steps close, the helmet cradled in both hands. “Alright, head down.”

Oscar hesitates for a heartbeat, but Lando is already moving, the distance between them vanishing. Lando tilts the helmet forward and slides it down over his head, the padding pressing gently against his cheeks. The world narrows to the faint hum of his own breath inside the shell and the warmth of Lando’s fingers at the strap under his jaw, adjusting, tightening.

“There,” Lando says, tugging the chin strap once more, satisfied. “Perfect fit.”

Through the visor, Oscar looks at Lando, his face close and eyes glinting in the light. “It’s weird,” Oscar admits, voice muffled by the helmet. “Feels heavy.”

Lando grins. “Yeah, she’s seen a few races. But you look good in it.”

Oscar’s breath catches, but before he can come up with anything to say back, Lando taps the top of the helmet lightly. “Alright, let’s get you out there.”

The moment the engine fires up, something in Oscar’s chest clicks back into place. The sound is deafening, the vibration thrumming through his entire body. He hasn’t felt this in so long, that raw connection between man and machine, the way it feels alive beneath you.

He rolls out of the pit lane slowly, tyres whispering against the tarmac. The circuit stretches ahead, wide and familiar, every corner etched into him like muscle memory.

And then he floors it.

The car responds instantly, smooth, violent acceleration that pins him to the seat. The air shudders around him as he takes the first corner, instinct taking over. The world around him blurs and his mind goes quiet. There’s no team politics, no contracts, no noise, just this. Speed and control. Freedom. For the first time in a really long time, he’s not thinking, he’s feeling.

After the first lap a voice crackles in his earpiece, smooth and bright. “Alright Osc, you good?”

Lando.

Oscar’s pulse jumps. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “Perfect.”

“Yeah?” Lando laughs. “You’re looking pretty perfect too, but I reckon you can push a bit harder. Don’t baby her too much.”

Oscar laughs. “You always talk about your cars like this?”

“Only the good ones.”

Lap after lap, Oscar feels the rhythm takes over. He’s lighter than air, weightless in motion, the car an extension of himself. The wind howls through the vents, the steering wheel humming under his grip. He brakes late, corners hard, feels the tyres bite perfectly against the track. Every sensation floods his veins with pure adrenaline.

“Nice,” Lando says, tone low and approving, after Oscar braked a little later in one of the corners. “Now push a little on the exit. You’ve got this.”

Oscar follows instinctively, accelerating harder out of the corner. The back end twitches, catches, then holds. He laughs, an unfiltered, unguarded sound that fills the cockpit.

“That’s it,” Lando says, and there’s a smile in his voice that Oscar can hear even through the static. “Now you’re driving her.”

The next laps blur. Each corner sharper, each line tighter. His confidence builds each time, his body moving with the car like he’s never stopped racing.

When he’s finally called back into the garage over the radio, he almost doesn’t want to stop.

He pulls back into the pit lane, engine cooling with a hiss. When the car stops, he sits there for a moment, helmet still on, breathing hard. His hands are shaking, not from fear, but from adrenaline and something like joy.

He climbs out of the cockpit, tugging off his gloves. The world feels too still, too slow compared to what he just left behind. Lando’s there before he’s even steady on his feet, hands coming up instinctively to grip his hips, steadying him.

“Easy,” Lando says, voice low, laughing. “You good?”

Oscar’s grin is wild, breathless. “That was… that was insane.”

“Yeah?” Lando’s grin widens. “Worth it?”

“Worth it?!” Oscar laughs, still gasping. “Lando, that was… it was… I mean...” he just laughs, unable to put how he’s feeling into words. He looks almost dizzy with it, eyes bright, hair sticking to his forehead.

Lando’s hands linger on his waist a second longer than necessary before he drops them, smile softening. “You look happy,” he says quietly.

Oscar meets his eyes, still grinning. “I am.”

Zac Brown appears then, clapping his hands together. “Hell of a drive, kid,” he says with a grin. “You’ve still got it. That looked clean as hell.”

Andrea nods, stepping forward. “Very composed. You adapted quickly, felt the car. That’s something you can’t teach.”

Oscar flushes slightly, caught between pride and disbelief. “Thank you. I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do another run,” Lando says, smirking.

Zac chuckles. “We’ll see what we can do. But seriously, Oscar… that was impressive. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been driving our cars all season.”

Oscar laughs softly, still high on adrenaline.

Andrea’s smile turns thoughtful. “Well, considering Alpine clearly doesn’t see what they’ve got, someone else will, especially with driving skills like that.”

Lando shoots him a sideways look but says nothing, he doesn’t need to.

Oscar’s still catching his breath, looking at the car, at the track stretching out beyond it, at the world that suddenly feels wide open again. He can’t remember the last time he’d felt like this, and he was willing to do anything to keep feeling it.

…

Media day for Lando and McLaren before Silverstone is buzzing with the kind of restless energy that only a home Grand Prix can bring. Camera crews are darting between hospitality units, journalists pacing with phones to their ears, fans pressed against the fences outside the paddock gates. Everywhere Oscar looks, there’s motion, sound and life.

He, however, is tucked away from it all.

Alpine’s simulator room is small and dimly lit, a cocoon of cool air and humming machinery. The screen in front of him glows pale blue, data streams cascading in precise, familiar patterns. Oscar’s spent the entire morning fine tuning setup feedback, noting handling differentials and scanning telemetry.

He’s halfway through a new configuration test when the door opens without warning. He doesn’t look up immediately, assuming it’s one of the engineers, until a voice cuts through the quiet, bright, familiar, unmistakably Lando.

“You planning to live in here or what?”

Oscar’s head snaps up. Lando’s leaning against the doorway like he owns the place, the McLaren orange of his team hoodie vivid against the sterile grey of the walls. His hair is tucked under a black cap, and there’s a takeaway bag dangling from one hand.

Oscar blinks, disoriented for a moment. “You’re meant to be doing media.”

“I was,” Lando says, stepping inside like he’s got all the time in the world. “But then I decided I’d rather see what the hermit of Alpine’s up to and if he would finally come out of shell for some lunch.”

“I’m not a hermit,” Oscar says flatly, turning back to his data. “I just like it quiet.”

“Which is code for ‘I’m allergic to people,’” Lando teases, dragging a chair over with the screech of metal on tile. “Good thing I’m not a person then.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but can’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. “You’re an idiot is what you are.”

“And yet,” Lando says, plopping down beside him, “you still like me.”

Oscar’s sighs as his heart clenches slightly at Lando’s words. “What are you doing here, Lando?”

“I told you,” Lando says, grin widening, “I brought lunch.”

He lifts the takeaway bag like a magician revealing his grand trick. The smell of food fills the small room immediately, grilled chicken, toasted bread, something warm and spiced beneath it.

Oscar blinks. “You brought me lunch?”

“You forget to eat when you’re working,” Lando says simply, as though that explains everything. “Someone’s got to stop you from passing out mid-simulation.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were,” Lando interrupts. “Did you know you do this face when you’re hungry, sort of blank, dead-eyed, tragic. It’s concerning.”

Oscar huffs a laugh, despite himself. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Not enough,” Lando says, grinning. He tosses the bag onto the desk, then leans back in the chair, spinning idly until he bumps the edge of the console. “Eat. I’ll feel like a good person.”

“Do you usually need proof of that?”

“Constantly,” Lando says.

Oscar bites back another smile and unwraps the food. It’s warm, perfectly wrapped, and annoyingly delicious. He’s not sure what to make of this version of Lando, the one who remembers small details like how Oscar forgets meals, or who shows up at random with lunch and no agenda.

“You’re still an idiot,” Oscar mutters through a mouthful.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It is now.”

The easy banter lingers between them, as effortless as breathing. They eat side by side, elbows brushing every so often when they reach for napkins or drinks. It’s comfortable, too comfortable. Oscar knows he could get used to this very quickly.

Lando’s in the middle of telling a story, something about a Sky Sports presenter mixing up his name with Lewis’ mid-interview, when Oscar laughs mid-bite. It’s loud, unguarded, has him tipping his head forward and shoulders shaking as he doubles over, clutching his stomach. It’s the kind of laugh that he realises Lando has been bringing out of him a lot lately.

Lando grins at him, eyes bright. “You should do that more often.”

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

Oscar rolls his eyes again, though his face is warm. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” Lando says. “I like when you laugh like that, you get this little crease in your cheek, it’s cute.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

Lando waves a hand. “Forget I said that.”

But he’s smiling too, the kind of smile that starts small and spreads without asking permission. Oscar shakes his head, looking down at his food to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s heavy, dense, almost palpable.

Then Lando tilts his head, studying him. “You’ve got something…”

“What?”

“Right here.” Lando gestures vaguely near his own mouth.

Oscar wipes at his lip with the back of his hand. “Gone?”

Lando’s grin turns sly. “Not even close.”

Before Oscar can react, Lando reaches forward. His thumb brushes the corner of Oscar’s mouth, slow, deliberate. It’s nothing and yet everything as Oscar freezes. His breath catches. Lando doesn’t pull back immediately. His thumb lingers for a moment too long, tracing the faint curve of Oscar’s lower lip like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. When he finally pulls away, it’s slow, reluctant, his eyes still locked on Oscar’s.

The air changes. Something hot and unfamiliar surges in Oscar’s chest. His pulse trips over itself. Lando’s gaze holds his, open and searching in a way that makes Oscar’s stomach twist.

Oscar feels the tension like static against his skin. His mouth parts slightly, maybe to speak, maybe just to breathe, and Lando mirrors him without thinking.

The door swings open. “Lando!”

The sound hits them like a dropped weight. Lando jerks back so fast his chair nearly tips.

His PR manager stands in the doorway, tablet in hand, looking harried. “You’re supposed to be at Sky’s live interview now. They’re waiting.”

Lando blinks, like he’s woken from a trance. “Right. Yeah. I’m… yeah, coming.”

“Should have known you’d be with Oscar,” his PR manager mutters under her breath.

Lando ignores her, quickly stands, fumbling for composure, eyes flicking briefly back to Oscar. There’s something flickering behind them, apology, confusion, something else entirely.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh… meet me in my driver room later, yeah?”

Oscar swallows, still trying to process what just happened. “Yeah, sure.”

“Cool.”

“Cool,” Oscar echoes, and it sounds painfully lame even to him.

Lando gives a quick smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before hurrying out the door.

When the room falls silent again, Oscar exhales shakily, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart is still hammering. He glances at the door like it might explain something, but it doesn’t. It was nothing, he tells himself. A reflex, a crumb. Except his skin still burns where Lando touched him, and that’s not nothing at all.

…

The McLaren hospitality building is quietening down in the late afternoon as the paddock empties out. The earlier chaos has thinned into something softer, slower. Oscar’s making his way through the hospitality suite toward Lando’s driver room, telling himself constantly that he’s not going to overthink this.

McLaren’s section of the paddock always feels brighter, somehow. Papaya splashed across every surface, energy humming from every wall. It’s strange to walk through it wearing Alpine gear, a few people glance up but no one questions him, and by now, most of the staff recognise his face anyway.

Lando’s room is quieter than expected. The lights are dimmed, the blinds half drawn against the low evening sun. A faint scent of coffee and something citrusy lingers. One of Lando’s LN branded hoodies hangs from the back of a chair. A pair of trainers have been kicked haphazardly near the couch. The space feels lived in, warm.

Oscar sits down, meaning to wait. He scrolls through his phone for a few minutes, half-heartedly flicking through messages he’s not in the mood to answer. His head’s heavy, eyes gritty from the hours staring at the sim screen. He leans back against the couch cushions and closes his eyes for what’s meant to be a second. The room is quiet enough that he can hear his own heartbeat and somewhere in the stillness, sleep drags him under.

He dreams of the track, the rumble of engines and the blur of orange. He’s back in a car, wind pressing through his helmet, the world streaking past too fast to hold onto. Then the noise fades.

When he wakes, it’s to a warmth against his hair.

A hand.

Oscar blinks slowly, eyelids heavy, the world hazy around the edges. Lando’s crouched beside the couch, close enough that Oscar can see the fine spray of freckles across his nose, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His fingers are tangled gently in Oscar’s hair, brushing a stray strand off his forehead.

“Hey,” Lando murmurs, voice soft in the quiet. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Oscar blinks again, trying to orient himself. “It’s fine.” His voice comes out rough, sleep heavy. “How long was I out?”

“About half an hour,” Lando says. “You looked dead to the world.”

Oscar shifts slightly, rubbing his eyes. “Long day.”

“Yeah,” Lando says. “Media circus is relentless.”

Lando doesn’t move away. He’s still crouched there, his knees bent awkwardly, one hand resting against the edge of the couch, the other hanging loose between them. Oscar can feel the faint brush of his knee against his own. It’s not much, but it feels like everything.

“You should’ve woken me,” Oscar says quietly.

Lando smiles faintly, the kind of smile that softens all his edges. “Didn’t want to. You looked… peaceful.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “I doubt that.”

“No, you did,” Lando says. “You never switch off, you know? Always thinking. Even when you’re not in the sim, it’s like your brain’s still going a thousand laps a minute.”

Oscar shrugs, embarrassed by how true that is. “Can’t really help it.”

“Yeah, you can,” Lando says. His tone is gentle but sure. “You just don’t let yourself.”

Oscar’s throat tightens slightly. He doesn’t have an answer for that.

Lando’s eyes flicker across his face, curious, thoughtful. There’s no teasing in his expression now, just quiet focus. “You alright?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Thought so.” Lando straightens up finally, stretches his back, then glances toward the table. “I grabbed water earlier. Want some?”

“Thanks,” Oscar murmurs, taking the bottle when Lando offers it. Their fingers brush, brief but noticeable.

He drinks slowly, the cool water grounding him. When he lowers the bottle, Lando’s still watching him. It’s the kind of look that makes Oscar’s heart lurch a little, not because it’s intense, but because it’s so open. There’s something vulnerable in it, something like care that neither of them has named yet.

“What?” Oscar asks softly, trying to smile.

Lando shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… you look wrecked.”

“Thanks.”

“In a good way,” Lando adds quickly, grin flickering back. “Like, hardworking wrecked.”

Oscar laughs quietly. “That’s reassuring.”

“You’re welcome,” Lando says, mock serious.

The tension lightens a fraction, but it doesn’t fade completely. It’s there even in the small moments, like now, when Lando sits down on the edge of the couch beside him, close enough that their thighs touch. Neither of them moves.

Oscar tries to focus on the water bottle in his hands, on the sound of distant paddock chatter outside the walls, but all he can think about is how warm Lando’s leg feels next to his, and how easy it would be to just lean sideways, let his head fall onto his shoulder.

He won’t, of course. But the thought lingers anyway.

Lando glances at the clock on the wall. “You ready to head out?”

Oscar blinks, realising how late it’s gotten. “Yeah.”

Lando smiles, then reaches down without thinking and brushes a stray lock of hair off Oscar’s forehead again. It’s such a simple thing, but Oscar’s breath catches anyway.

Their eyes meet, the air between them charged. Neither speaks.

And then Lando clears his throat and steps back, his voice suddenly lighter. “Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get some air.”

Oscar pushes to his feet, still a little unsteady. “Where are we going?”

“Dinner,” Lando says, holding the door open with a grin. “I’m having dinner tonight with Max and Pietra, you’re coming as well. Gotta make sure you eat somehow.”

Oscar rolls his eyes jokingly but follows, trying to shake off the lingering haze, from his nap or from Lando’s touch, he’s not sure.

As they step out into the back of the paddock, the evening light is soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the concrete. The air smells like rubber, petrol, and faint rain. And though Oscar tells himself he’s imagining it, when Lando’s arm brushes his as they walk, he doesn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

Max and Pietra are already at the restaurant by the time Lando and Oscar arrive, tucked into a booth not visible by people passing by. Lando informed Oscar on the drive there that this place has the best pasta and that’s something he’d swear by.

The four of them fit around the table only just, elbows brushing as wine glasses and bread baskets fill what little space there is. Lando in the seat beside Oscar, the edge of his knee brushing his.

The dinner stretches easily into the evening, plates traded for dessert menus and half empty glasses of wine glinting in the candlelight. The conversation flows easily, starting with stories about childhood. Lando talks about doing donuts with his kart on the tennis court at his parents’ house. Max chimes in with tales of competitions to see who could slide the furthest on tracks that froze over in the English winter mornings. When they ask Oscar, he mentions growing up in Melbourne, karting anytime and anywhere he could when he wasn’t at school, getting in trouble for digging up his school oval when decided one afternoon to use that as a karting track. He talks about the road trip he’d take with his family as his parents drove him all around the state for competitions. His voice softens when he talks about it, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

Max leans back in his chair, halfway through a story about an old karting rivalry that went wrong when a mechanic forgot to tighten a steering column. “Nearly ended up in the barriers at full tilt,” he says, gesturing wildly. “Told my Dad it was strategy.”

Pietra groans. “You mean an excuse.”

Lando laughs, shaking his head. “You haven’t changed.”

Oscar smiles quietly, eyes flicking between them. “You two really did start young, huh?”

“Too young,” Pietra says. “By the time Max was nine he thought he was Senna.”

Max grins. “Hey! I was a kid with a dream.”

Lando tosses a breadstick at him. “Delusional then, delusional now.”

Oscar hides a laugh behind his napkin. “I think everyone starts a bit delusional.”

Lando turns to him, grin softening. “You, delusional? I can’t imagine that.”

Oscar shrugs, his voice quieter. “You have to be, to think a kid from Melbourne can actually make it all the way here.”

Pietra smiles. “That’s kind of the point though, isn’t it?”

Lando nods, eyes lingering on Oscar’s face longer than they should. “Exactly.”

There’s a beat of silence before Max clears his throat dramatically. “Alright, alright, enough with the motivational speech. This is starting to sound like a documentary.”

Lando laughs again, the tension breaking. “You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d demand creative control,” Max says, smirking.

They move on to stories from karting circuits, endless travel, dodgy hotels, the thrill of the first podiums. Oscar listens more than he speaks, but when he does, everyone leans in. He talks about nights spent rebuilding engines with his Dad, of missing school trips, of meeting Mark and getting his first proper sponsorship at fourteen.

Lando watches him with quiet fascination. He’s heard stories before, but not like this, not in Oscar’s calm, self-deprecating way. Every so often, their knees bump beneath the table, and neither of them pulls away.

Max finishes another glass and grins. “You know, this is kind of feeling like a double date.”

Lando sputters. “What?”

“Look at you two,” Max says, gesturing between them. “Sharing food, making heart eyes…”

“We’re not,” Oscar says quickly, cheeks blazing. “We’re just…”

“Friends,” Lando cuts in, voice an octave higher. “Totally normal friends.”

Pietra laughs into her wine. “Relax, boys, he’s teasing.”

“Mostly,” Max adds.

Oscar groans while Lando tries to laugh it off, but his face is still warm. “He’s been embarrassing me in public for years.”

“Because it’s fun,” Max says.

“Because you’re a menace,” Lando shoots back.

The table bursts into laughter again, the awkwardness fading under the easy rhythm of old friends. But every time Oscar glances up, Lando’s already looking at him, the kind of look that feels heavier than it should, the kind that lingers long after the joke ends.

Later, when the bill arrives and Lando and Max are bickering over who’s paying, Pietra gets Oscar’s attention. “Ignore them. They’ll pretend to fight each other for the bill but in the end Lando always finds a way to pay for everyone.”

Oscar smiles. “So he’s predictable.”

“Painfully.”

His eyes meet Lando’s again, and for a heartbeat the noise of the restaurant fades. Oscar’s chest feels tight, unsure what to do with the way Lando’s looking at him, the way it feels so easy to be here.

“You okay?” Lando asks softly.

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Just… this is nice.”

Lando’s grin softens into something small and genuine. “Yeah, it is.”

When they stand to leave, Max claps Lando on the back. “See? Double dates aren’t so bad.”

Lando groans. “Fuck off mate.”

Oscar does a terrible job of hiding his smile.

Outside, the air has cooled down considerably. The walk from the restaurant back to Lando’s car is quieter than dinner had been, the laughter and noise fading behind them until it’s just the sound of their footsteps on the pavement. The street glows under soft yellow lamps, the air heavy with the feeling of incoming rain. Oscar walks a little behind Lando, watching the way the light catches on his hair, the easy confidence in his stride. He shouldn’t be looking, but he can’t help it.

Lando glances over his shoulder. “You’re quiet,” he says. “Dinner wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Oscar shakes his head quickly. “No, it was good. I just… Max really doesn’t hold back.”

Lando laughs. “Yeah, he’s thinks he being funny but sometimes doesn’t realise he can make things uncomfortable. Don’t take it personally.”

“I didn’t,” Oscar says quickly.

Lando gives him a sidelong look that says he doesn’t believe him but lets it go. They keep walking, their arms brushing once, twice, until Lando stops by his car. “Is there any chance you’d want to come back to my hotel?”

Oscar blinks. “Sorry?”

“To watch a movie I mean,” Lando says, voice quick, light. “I just… never sleep well Silverstone weekend. Always too wired.”

“Oh,” Oscar says, still processing. “Okay… sure.”

Lando grins. “Good. I’d hate to watch Die Hard alone again. Max says it’s not a Christmas movie, but he’s wrong.”

Oscar huffs out a quiet laugh. “It’s definitely not. And it’s June anyway.”

“Blasphemy.” Lando’s grin widens, and Oscar feels something flicker deep in his chest that he tries to ignore.

…

The hotel room is warm and dim when they get there, all soft lamplight and noise from the world below filtering faintly through the glass. Lando orders room service, popcorn, coke, some sweet dessert neither of them finish, and throws himself onto the couch. Oscar takes the other end, unsure what to do with his hands.

Lando sits back against the couch, his arm hooked along the top as he loads Die Hard up ready to go.

Oscar glances over, half a smile on his face. “So… why Die Hard?”

Lando laughs under his breath. “Yeah, I have a bit of a tradition.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes flickering to the screen. “I can never sleep before Silverstone. I’ve tried everything, dark room, meditation apps, melatonin, all of it. Doesn’t work. Too much adrenaline I think. It’s my home race. I can always feel the exception on me, the anticipation that I’ll do well here, the minute I land in the UK.”

Oscar studies him. “So you watch Bruce Willis to help?”

“Exactly.” Lando grins, then looks softer when he continues. “It started when I was in formula two. I had a massive crash the race before Silverstone. Nothing bad, but it shook me up. That night before the race, I couldn’t sleep. I was wired, terrified I’d mess up again. My Dad ended up turning on Die Hard, just to fill the silence. I don’t even know why, it’s loud, ridiculous, full of explosions, but it helped. I watched the whole thing and won the next morning.”

“I remember watching that race,” Oscar admits quietly.

Lando shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “So now I do it every year. Doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m with. Die Hard goes on, I stay up too late, and eventually I just sort of crash. It’s a Silverstone superstition.”

Oscar smiles. “You think John McClane brings you luck?”

Lando chuckles. “Maybe not luck exactly. Just reminds me that pressures part of it, you know? That you can be scared and still pull it off. I like familiarity too, helps with my anxiety and when I get too caught up in my head. The same movie, the same stupid lines. Makes everything feel a little less big.”

Oscar nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Lando says lightly, nudging his knee. “It ruins my cool driver image.”

Oscar laughs softly, shaking his head. “I think it makes you more human.”

For a second, Lando doesn’t answer. His gaze drifts back to the screen, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe that’s why I keep watching it.”

They start the movie, but neither is really paying attention. Lando talks through half of it, mocking bad dialogue and pointing out impossible stunts. Oscar laughs more than he means to, shoulders loosening as the tension of the day fades.

Somewhere halfway through, the talking comes to a natural stop. Oscar’s head starts to feel heavy, the warmth of the room lulling him. He shifts slightly, eyes fluttering closed, until his head lands on something solid and warm, Lando’s shoulder.

He doesn’t mean to stay there. He means to move, to apologise, but sleep catches him before he can.

…

When Oscar wakes the next morning, it’s to the morning sunlight pushing through the half drawn curtains and the weight of something pressed against him. He shifts slightly, disoriented as he blinks the sleep from his eyes and takes a moment for his brain to make sense of it.

As he shifts, it causes the weight around his waist to tighten slightly. An arm around him. The slow, even rhythm of someone breathing behind him.

Lando.

Chest to his back, holding him in place like it was the most natural thing. Their legs intertwined to ensure they both fit on the small couch.

Oscar goes rigid. His pulse roars in his ears. The air feels too warm, his skin too sensitive where Lando’s arm rests low on his stomach. He realises quickly that he is hard, achingly so, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans from the night before. Mortification claws at him. Why does this keep happening to him? The subtle scent of Lando mixed with sleep and the firm press of Lando’s body against his, it is too much, too intimate. Oscar's heart hammers in his chest, a frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else.

Lando shifts slightly in his sleep, his chest pressing flush against Oscar’s back. It’s innocent, probably accidental, but Oscar can’t think. His heart races, he doesn’t dare move, just squeezes his eyes shut and wills his body to calm down. It doesn’t.

Carefully, painfully, Oscar lifts Lando’s arm and slips free. Lando murmurs something incoherent but doesn’t wake. Oscar grabs his hoodie and shoes, shoving them on with shaking hands.

He stops by the door, glancing back. Lando’s still asleep, face soft, hair a mess against the arm of the couch. He looks peaceful, completely unaware of the chaos he’s just left in Oscar’s head. Oscar swallows hard, throat tight, and slips out of the room desperately trying to ignore the way his chest aches with confusion, embarrassment, and something deeper he still refuses to name.

…

The morning of race day at Silverstone feels like the world is vibrating. Even tucked inside the Alpine garage, Oscar can feel it through the floor, the hum of engines, the thrum of tens of thousands of voices outside. There’s always energy at a Grand Prix, but even as an Aussie, Oscar can admit the British Grand Prix feels different thanks to the multitude of British drivers. Every corner of the circuit feels alive.

The crowd is already chanting Lando’s name even before the race starts. His face is on every screen and every sign, flags marked with his initials waving across the grandstands. It should be distracting, but Oscar finds himself staring. He watches as Lando walks toward his car on the grid, helmet in hand, tapping fists with his mechanics. Calm, focused, smiling. It’s like he was made for this.

Oscar hadn’t seen Lando since he had embarrassingly fled from his hotel room yesterday morning. He’d texted Lando later on to apologise for leaving without saying goodbye and made up some excuse about being needed at Alpine. With the amount of time Oscar spends on the sim and looking over data, he didn’t think it’d be too far of a stretch for Lando to believe.

Lando was then too busy getting pole in qualifying and Oscar was dragged into more debriefs to try and understand why the two Alpine’s had, yet again, failed to get out of Q1.

“Ready to go?” one of the Alpine engineers asks, snapping him out of it.

Oscar nods, pretending to check his headset. “Yeah.”

The race countdown begins. Five red lights flash overhead. His heart pounds like he’s the one on the grid.

When the lights go out, chaos erupts. Lando doesn’t get the cleanest start, the McLaren stutters slightly and Verstappen flies past before the first corner. Oscar mutters under his breath, not even realising he’s doing it. “Come on, come on, you’ve got this.”

The Alpine team are buried in strategy talk, voice lines filling his headset, but Oscar tunes most of it out. He’s glued to the timing screens, watching Lando’s sectors, the way he’s clawing back tenths on every lap. It’s textbook precision, not desperation, but pure control.

By lap fifteen, Lando’s breathing down Verstappen’s neck. Oscar can’t help the tiny grin tugging at his mouth. He can picture the look on Lando’s face, that silent, patient aggression that sits behind his calm exterior.

Pit stops start, strategies unravel. McLaren nails theirs to perfection. Red Bull calls Max in first, McLaren tells Lando to stay out. When Lando is called in a few laps later, the car hits its marks, tyres off and on in two seconds flat, and Lando’s out just ahead of Max. The roar from the pit lane is instant.

Oscar exhales, almost laughing. “Yes, come on Lando,” he whispers to himself.

He catches a few side glances from the Alpine mechanics, half smirks, but he doesn’t care. He can’t help it. Watching Lando drive like that, watching the entire track rise for him, it’s intoxicating.

As the laps count down, the noise outside the garage swells, pure, collective pride from the crowd. Lando takes the chequered flag, and it’s like the circuit explodes. Orange smoke, cheers so loud Oscar can feel them in his chest.

“And Lando Norris takes the checkered flag, yet again, at his home race here at Silverstone,” Oscar hears through the broadcast radio feed. “That recovery from the start was clinical, brilliant. Lando and McLaren have every right to celebrate that win today.”

“They do indeed,” another voice comes through. “But it does pose the question of what McLaren are going to do about his teammate Alex Dunne. He finishes well outside the points again today. That’s got to hurt on a weekend like this when you’re teammate has been top of everything.”

“Yes, the gap between the two McLaren cars is massive, and you’ve got to think questions will start being asked. Especially with Alex out of contract after this year.”

“Tough discussions to be made at McLaren indeed. Still the story here today is Lando Norris, a home hero, a four time world champion, and with that win here at the British Grand Prix, putting him further ahead of Max in the points, he’s well on his way to potentially becoming a five time world champion.”

Oscar pulls his headset off when he sees Lando’s car pull up into Parc Ferme. Oscar claps without thinking, watching the celebration, and even though it’s not his team, he doesn’t care. It’s Lando.

Minutes later the post-race interviews start broadcasting live in the garages. Lando’s standing there, curls damps with sweat and a wide smile. The noise of the crowd bleeds through the microphone as Jensen Button shouts to be heard.

“Lando, that was an incredible drive. The perfect race in front of your home fans. You must be pretty happy with how that race went?”

“Yeah, I mean, it was tough out there today. The start wasn’t ideal, I lost more ground than I ideally would have liked, made things a lot more difficult for myself,” he laughs. “But once we got into our rhythm, everything clicked nicely. Team did a mega job with the strategy and pit stops, and the car felt amazing. Honestly, it’s one of those days where everything you’ve worked for just… comes together.”

Jensen grins. “You made it look effortless?”

Lando shakes his head, smiling. “Trust me, it didn’t feel it. The pressure here is insane. It’s taken time but I think I’ve learned over the years how to channel that instead of letting it get to me.”

“Yeah?” Jensen grins. “Any tips or tricks on what it takes to prepare for a race like this? One with so much internal and external pressure?”

Lando laughs, head ducking a little. “I don’t think you can ever really prepare for your home race. There’s something about coming here that always makes it feel like it’s my first time racing here over and over again. I just stick to my traditions, keep things simple, watch a movie with good company.”

The broadcast keeps rolling, switching to highlights and pre-podium chatter, but Oscar’s already somewhere else. His pulse won’t settle, his thoughts are spiralling faster than he can stop them. So when he overhears someone say ‘Lando seems more grounded this year doesn’t he?’ and someone else reply, ‘yeah, something’s clearly changed for him this season,’ Oscar can’t stop his mind from wondering whether he is the reason. God, he’s being stupid.

He can’t stay in the garage anymore. He pushes his chair back and stands abruptly, ignoring the curious glances from some of the engineers.

He doesn’t even intend to go to the podium when he realises his feet are already carrying him there. Security waves him through after a quick glance at his pass. He finds a spot off to the side so he won’t be in anyone’s way. The crowd roars again as Lando appears, a Union Jack flag held high above his head. He’s beaming, eyes shining, ace flushed with triumph.

The podium ceremony feels surreal up close. Lando standing high above the crowd, trophy held aloft, English flag looming on the screen behind him. It’s the kind of moment you see on highlight reels in years to come.

When Lando looks down from the podium, scanning the sea of faces, Oscar doesn’t think he’ll ever spot him in the crowd. But then he does. Their eyes meet, clear as day. Lando’s grin widens immediately. He points, right at him, and Oscar’s breath catches.

It’s so quick, so small, yet the whole world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. A few people nearby follow Lando’s gesture and glance at Oscar curiously, but he doesn’t move. He just lifts his hand in a small, unsure wave. Lando’s laughter carries faintly over the noise as he lifts his trophy higher.

…

The Alpine garage is quiet now, the race wrapped up, the engineers packing away. He’s halfway through scrolling mindlessly on his phone when a voice cuts through the low hum.

“Hey, stranger.”

Oscar looks up. Lando’s standing in the doorway, still in his race suit unzipped to his waist, undershirt clinging to his chest, winner’s cap hanging loosely in his hand. His hair’s damp and messy, the kind of dishevelled that shouldn’t look good but somehow does.

“Lando,” Oscar says, startled. “What are you doing here?”

Lando leans against the frame, smirking. “What, I can’t visit the competition?

“You just won Silverstone,” Oscar says, incredulous. “You should be doing media and celebrating. You know, champagne, podium interviews, press stuff…”

“Already did some of that,” Lando says, brushing it off. “I’ve got more later. Family dinner, team party, the whole thing.”

“Then why…”

Lando grins wider, and for a second Oscar forgets how to breathe. “Because you’re coming.”

Oscar stares at him. “I’m what?”

“You heard me,” Lando says easily. “Meet me in my driver room in an hour. We’ll go together.”

“Lando, I don’t…”

“Osc,” he says, cutting him off gently. “I just won my home race, and I want to celebrate. With you okay?”

Oscar doesn’t know what to do with that. He fiddles with the band of his watch, avoiding Lando’s gaze. “I’d probably just get in the way.”

Lando steps closer, his tone softening. “You wouldn’t.”

Oscar finally looks up, and there’s something in Lando’s eyes that makes it hard to find words, warmth, fondness, something he doesn’t dare name.

“I’m serious,” Lando continues. “I want you there tonight.”

Oscar swallows hard. His throat feels tight. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Lando’s grin returns, bright and effortless. “Good. See you in an hour Osc. No disappearing on me.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but the smile that tugs at his mouth gives him away.

Lando flashes him one last grin before walking back into the buzz of the paddock, still glowing with victory. Oscar watches him go, the orange of his suit disappearing into the blur of McLaren mechanics.

When he finally looks away, his chest is still tight, his heart still hammering. Lando Norris just invited him to celebrate a British Grand Prix win. And Oscar Piastri can’t shake the feeling that tonight, everything might change.

…

The hallway outside McLaren’s hospitality smells like champagne and metal, the echoes of the last of the crowd still distant as they wait for the last few drivers to leave. Oscar stands outside Lando’s driver room, heart already thudding too fast, trying not to think about the fact that he’s about to go out with a freshly crowned British Grand Prix winner.

The door opens before he can knock. Lando stands there in jeans and a black McLaren hoodie, his hair damp from a quick shower. There’s still a faint crease from his race helmet along his forehead and cheeks, a reminder that a few hours ago, he was on top of the world.

“Right on time,” Lando says, smiling, holding the door wider. “You clean up well.”

Oscar glances down at himself, plain shirt, jeans, jacket. “It’s just clothes.”

“Yeah, but they work.”

Lando’s grin is bright, teasing, but it carries that undercurrent again, the one that makes Oscar’s stomach twist. He follows as Lando grabs his phone and keys.

“Ready?” Lando asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The back of the paddock is quiet now. Most of the media’s gone, the crowd cleared out, and the teams are starting to pack up. The air hums with the dull sounds of generators and tyre guns, the steady clatter of trolleys and the muted chatter of engineers finishing up for the evening. Floodlights wash everything in a pale white.

Lando walks ahead, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, head ducked against the cool night air. Oscar trails a half step behind, his exhaustion fading the longer they walk. The cool air feeling good on his skin after a long day.

“See that tyre trolley over there?” Lando says randomly, nodding toward the corner of the McLaren garage. “I tripped over one of those in 2021. Nearly broke my nose before qualifying. Whole team thought I’d been mugged.”

Oscar snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”

“You and half the internet,” Lando replies easily. “Zac still has a photo somewhere. Said it’s for insurance down the track. Whatever that means.”

Oscar shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

“I still have trouble believing it sometimes,” Lando says softly, pausing to allow Oscar to catch up to him. “Winning here. Every time I think I’ve achieved it all, that nothing else can surprise me in this sport, something always happens to find a way to make me feel like a rookie again.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “You didn’t look like one. A rookie I mean, out there today.”

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t just me who made it work. If there’s anything you should take from this past month Osc, it’s that you can’t do any of this without the team. It’s the team that wins the race.” Lando nudges him lightly with his elbow. “And that includes you too, you know? Even as a reserve. Every bit of data, every sim run, it feeds back into the bigger picture. Don’t ever think it doesn’t matter.”

Oscar gives a quick smile. “Thanks.”

Lando’s grin softens into something proud. “You’ve come a long way Osc, you know that? You should see yourself from my side of it, it’s crazy how much sharper you are now.”

Oscar feels heat creep up the back of his neck. “That’s mostly you.”

“No it’s not,” Lando says strongly. “I just gave you the right tools. The rest of it, that’s all you.”

Oscar doesn’t respond. He doesn’t trust his voice not to give him away.

They round the corner toward the narrow back corridor that runs behind the Ferrari and Mercedes units, one of the quieter stretches, usually used only by mechanics moving equipment. The sound of conversation drifts faintly from somewhere nearby, but it’s distant, muffled.

Oscar’s about to ask something, anything to fill the space between them, when a sharp metallic rattle and voices are suddenly raised in warning.

“Watch out!”

It happens fast. Too fast to process.

A team of Ferrari mechanics bursts around the corner, pushing two massive tyre trolleys side by side, stacked too high and rolling far too quickly. The path is narrow, barely wide enough for one trolley, let alone two.

“Shit…” Lando reacts instantly, stepping sideways to make space, except Oscar’s right there, a half step behind, caught completely off guard.

Lando stumbles back into him, instinctively reaching out. His hand catches Oscar’s waist, pulling him with him before either of them can think. Oscar’s back hits the wall of Ferrari’s hospitality with a dull thud, Lando’s weight following through, pressing them close.

The mechanics rush past with shouted apologies, the tyres squealing as they round the bend. The sound fades almost immediately.

Oscar blinks, dazed. He can feel the vibration of the wall behind him. It takes him a moment to realise what’s happened.

Lando’s palm is flat against Oscar’s chest, fingers splayed like he’s bracing both of them. His other hand is curved around his waist where he’d caught him. The warmth of it seeps through the thin fabric of Oscar’s shirt, grounding and dizzying all at once. The space between them is barely there, their bodies fitting together like something that had been waiting to happen.

Oscar’s breath stutters in his throat.

Lando doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls quickly. Their noses brush, a soft, electric thing that makes Oscar’s pulse stutter.

Lando blinks, eyes wide, his mouth parting like he’s about to speak. “Fuck, sorry I…”

But as he goes to speak his lips graze Oscar’s instead. The contact is feather light, barely there, but it sets off a shiver that races straight through Oscar’s chest. Lando goes still, frozen mid-breath, eyes flicking from Oscar’s mouth to his eyes again, torn between instinct and reason.

Lando’s eyes are wide, pupils blown. He’s breathing hard, shallow, the way someone does when they’ve just realised they’re standing too close but can’t quite make themselves move.

Oscar’s heart is beating so fast it’s almost painful. He can feel the rhythm of it against Lando’s hand, each thud heavy and impossible to hide. His pulse feels like it’s everywhere.

For a moment, it’s just them, the low hum of the paddock fading to nothing. The air smells like rubber, fuel, soap from earlier, and Lando’s cologne, sharp citrus, warm skin. It’s overwhelming.

“Lando?” Oscar’s voice is a whisper, barely sound.

Lando’s breath shudders. His thumb shifts slightly, brushing against Oscar’s ribs through the fabric of his shirt. The look on his face is something heavy that makes Oscar forget how to breathe. Lando lips part, a low, defeated noise comes out, one that sounds too close to a confession. Then, before Oscar can think, before either of them can stop it, Lando closes the distance.

Their lips meet in a soft, startled collision. Oscar freezes for a fraction of a second before his body catches up to what’s happening. Lando’s mouth is warm against his, tentative, uncertain, but real.

Oscar’s hands hover in midair, not knowing where to go, until instinct wins and his fingers curl into the fabric of Lando’s hoodie. Lando’s hand tightens slightly on Oscar’s waist, grounding them both.

Lando exhales sharply against his mouth, and the kiss deepens just slightly. The world outside fades, the noises of the paddock falling away until it’s just the two of them and Oscar’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.

When Lando finally pulls back, his breath still ghosting between them, Oscar’s body betrays him. He leans forward without thinking, chasing the warmth that’s already gone, stopping himself only when his lips nearly brush Lando’s again.

Oscar can’t think. He’s too aware of everything, the warmth of Lando’s skin, the smell of fuel and rain in the air, the lingering taste of champagne on his lips. His pulse is so loud he wonders if Lando can hear it.

The realisation that Lando just kissed him hits all at once. He freezes, eyes wide, heart hammering. Lando stares back, the same stunned look written across his face, like neither of them can quite believe what just happened. And for a moment, it feels like the whole paddock is holding its breath with them.

Chapter Text

The air in the Alpine debrief room feels thick, stale from too many bodies and recycled air. The projector hums, throwing graphs and telemetry lines across the wall, but Oscar’s eyes barely track them. He’s staring, but not seeing, the numbers dissolving into meaningless shapes and squiggles. He twirls his pen between his fingers, fighting the ache behind his eyes. Every time he blinks, it’s Lando’s face that flashes in the dark, smiling, teasing, closing the distance between them.

He tries to ground himself in the engineer’s voice. It’s the Belgium Grand Prix, the second last race before the summer break and he’s meant to be focusing on tyre degradation, pit windows, and the expected weather shifts. But it’s all white noise. He feels detached from the words, like he’s watching from behind glass.

“…and over at McLaren,” one of the engineers says, cutting through the fog, “Norris did not have a good qualifying. Qualifying twelve, not even making Q3.”

Oscar’s head jerks up before he can stop it. His pulse stutters.

Someone chuckles near the front. “That’ll shake things up a bit. Didn’t expect him to be that far down, honestly.”

“Maybe he’s off his rhythm,” another adds. “He’s been untouchable lately.”

Esteban leans back in his chair beside Oscar, glancing over with a lopsided grin. “You’d know what’s up with him, right?”

Oscar blinks, thrown. “Why would I?” The words come out sharper than intended.

Esteban’s hands lift immediately in mock defence, his grin faltering into something uncertain. “Hey, relax. Just saying… you two seem close, that’s all.”

Oscar exhales, the fight leaving him as quickly as it came. “We haven’t spoken since last weekend,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to the desk. He taps his pen once, twice, before setting it down altogether.

The meeting continues, discussions of fuel mapping, strategies, data cross-checks, but he’s gone into his head again. His thoughts drift back to Lando. Twelfth. It’s strange hearing it out loud. He can picture exactly how Lando would’ve looked afterward, jaw tight, blaming himself for the performance, never the team. Oscar wonders if he’s okay, wonders if he’s sleeping, wonders if he should text him, and immediately hates himself for thinking it. Lando could just as easily text him too.

By the time the meeting ends, Oscar’s head feels heavy. He gathers his notes out of habit more than need. Esteban hangs back as the others file out. “You good, mate?” he asks quietly.

Oscar nods automatically. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind. I’ll be fine.”

Esteban studies him for a second, like he doesn’t believe it, then claps him on the shoulder before leaving. The door swings shut behind him, leaving Oscar in the hum of computers and the distant sound of air guns from the garage.

He stays seated, elbows on his knees, staring at the blank tabletop. His pulse hasn’t settled since Lando’s name came up. Twelfth. The number rolls around in his head, meaningless and yet not at all.

He thinks about last weekend, about Sunday, about the moment in the Silverstone paddock after Lando had pulled off that brilliant win. And about the kiss he hasn’t stopped replaying over and over in his head. The noise Lando had let out and how his breath had hitched right before their lips met.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees stars. Stop it, he tells himself, he has to stop. But he knows he won’t. Because every time he tries, every time he tries to shut it down, Lando just finds a way to slip through anyway.

He gets up slowly, forcing his focus back to the sound of footsteps outside. It’s race day, and he should care about Alpine’s strategy, about his job. But all he can think about is Lando Norris, and the stupid, impossible, perfect feeling of that kiss he can’t forget.

…

RACE DAY - SILVERSTONE

“Lando?” Oscar’s voice is a whisper, barely sound.

Lando’s breath shudders. His thumb shifts slightly, brushing against Oscar’s ribs through the fabric of his shirt. The look on his face is something heavy that makes Oscar forget how to breathe. Lando lips part, a low, defeated noise comes out, one that sounds too close to a confession. Then, before Oscar can think, before either of them can stop it, Lando closes the distance.

Their lips meet in a soft, startled collision. Oscar freezes for a fraction of a second before his body catches up to what’s happening. Lando’s mouth is warm against his, tentative, uncertain, but real.

Oscar’s hands hover in midair, not knowing where to go, until instinct wins and his fingers curl into the fabric of Lando’s hoodie. Lando’s hand tightens slightly on Oscar’s waist, grounding them both.

Lando exhales sharply against his mouth, and the kiss deepens just slightly. The world outside fades, the noises of the paddock falling away until it’s just the two of them and Oscar’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.

When Lando finally pulls back, his breath still ghosting between them, Oscar’s body betrays him. He leans forward without thinking, chasing the warmth that’s already gone, stopping himself only when his lips nearly brush Lando’s again.

Oscar can’t think. He’s too aware of everything, the warmth of Lando’s skin, the smell of fuel and rain in the air, the lingering taste of champagne on his lips. His pulse is so loud he wonders if Lando can hear it.

The realisation that Lando just kissed him hits all at once. He freezes, eyes wide, heart hammering. Lando stares back, the same stunned look written across his face, like neither of them can quite believe what just happened. And for a moment, it feels like the whole paddock is holding its breath with them.

Lando’s eyes flick open first. “Shit.” He steps back half a step, letting go of Oscar and dragging a hand through his hair. Oscar pointedly ignores how cold it feels without Lando’s body pressed against him. “Shit, Oscar, I…” He stops, words catching like he can’t find the right ones. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“What?” Oscar’s heart thunders. “No, Lando it’s okay…”

“No,” Lando interrupts, his voice rough, too fast. “No, it’s not okay. I didn’t even think, I didn’t ask, I just…” He shakes his head, staring at the ground. “God, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

Oscar blinks. “Lando…”

“It’s not,” Lando says quickly. His words come disjointed now, spilling out like he’s arguing with himself now, voice low and strained. Oscar realises Lando’s looking anywhere but at him. “I can’t just do that. I can’t just… Jesus.” Lando presses his palms to his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Why did I do that?”

Oscar doesn’t know what to do, he’s never seen Lando like this. He wants to reach out, to try and comfort Lando like all the times he’s done for him, but his hands just twitch uselessly at his sides.

“I shouldn’t…” He exhales sharply. “I can’t like you like that. You’re… you’re my friend. You trust me. I shouldn’t want this. I can’t want this.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. “Lando, it’s okay. Lando I….” he pauses, his voice almost pleading. He swallows sharply before taking a deep breath, summoning everything in him to finally just be honest. “I, I wanted you to kiss me.”

Lando looks up at him, eyes bright, expression torn between disbelief and panic. “God, you can’t say that,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, you’re… you’re too young, everyone… everyone told me…” His voice cracks at the end, like he doesn’t even believe what he’s saying.

“Lando,” Oscar insists quietly, his heart pounding so hard it hurts.

Lando’s jaw flexes, his face twisting. “I always fuck everything up.”

“Lando I don’t know what you’re saying but you haven’t fucked anything up.” Oscar asks, voice barely above a whisper. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers curling around Lando’s bicep, giving a small, grounding squeeze. “Please just talk to me.”

The touch seems to finally jolt Lando out of his own head, he’s looking at Oscar like he’s only just remembered he’s there. His eyes full of everything he’s too scared to say.  “I can’t do this,” he says, each word breaking Oscar a little more. “I can’t, Oscar. I’m sorry,” He cuts himself off again, then lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. “I have to go.”

Oscar stands frozen as Lando turns and walks away, watching Lando disappear around the corner of the Ferrari unit. Part of him wants to chase after him, to grab Lando’s arm, make him stop and tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to spiral like this. He’s never seen Lando like that before, unravelled and unsure, and it scares him more than he wants to admit.

But the other part of him wants answers, wants to know what that kiss meant. Why Lando had looked at him like that just before he kissed him.

The two urges clash inside him but he doesn’t move, doesn’t chase after Lando. He just stays there, the world rushing back in around him, the paddock noises coming back to him, all of it blurred under the echo of Lando’s voice repeating, ‘I can’t do this’.

It isn’t until later that Oscar realises that maybe Lando wasn’t really talking to him at all. He was fighting with himself and losing.

…

The week after Silverstone had dragged by in slow motion for Oscar, every hour stretching painfully long. When he isn’t doing prep work for Spa, he spends most the time replaying the kiss and overthinking every word Lando said and every expression on his face afterwards. He continuously questions what went wrong and any conclusions Oscar comes up with all ends with him blaming himself. It had to have been him, he must’ve done something wrong.

He tries to contact Lando, a text the next morning asking if he’s okay, no response. Another the following evening. Still nothing. He tries calling, his thumb hovering over the call button longer and longer each time before pressing dial. The calls ring out, unanswered, until they eventually don’t, the robotic voice telling him the number he is trying to call is not currently accepting calls. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. It feels deliberate, like a wall being built brick by brick with every failed attempt.

And Oscar wants to hate Lando, he really does, for ignoring him and avoiding this, but he can’t. Because he did exactly the same thing to Lando when he finally acknowledged and accepted his feelings for the first time. And that is what makes it hurt even more.

By the time Spa rolls around, Oscar has a plan. He tells himself he’ll find Lando, face him, and talk it through like adults. A week should be enough time for Lando to have worked through it himself. He rehearsed what he’ll say, the calm, logical version of himself, not the one that doesn’t know what he’s doing or sound like someone whose heart is breaking.

But the moment he steps into the paddock, it becomes clear that Lando has no intention of giving him that chance. Lando has spent the last three days avoiding him completely. And it’s not subtle avoidance either. Every time Oscar spots him, Lando’s already turning away, walking off in the opposite direction or ducking into the nearest hospitality. Lando seems to never be on his own either, always with someone from McLaren.

Once, Oscar catches sight of him with some of his mechanics. Oscar’s stomach unsettles at the sight of him laughing with that easy grin of his. As Lando passes him on the way to the McLaren garage, Lando keeps his eyes fixed ahead, expression unreadable, as if Oscar doesn’t exist at all.

By race day on the Sunday, Oscar’s resolve is fraying. His plan has been rendered useless. Lando is avoiding him, carefully, deliberately, like he had thought out all of his moves beforehand. And maybe that’s what hurts the most, not the silence itself but how intentional it feels.

Now, standing near the exit of the Alpine hospitality suite a few hours before lights out, Oscar catches sight of Lando leaving McLaren’s hospitality building across the paddock. It’s still early, the crowd not nearly as humming and chaotic as it will be in a few hours’ time, mechanics pushing trolleys back and forth between the garages and trucks. Lando’s got his cap pulled low, talking briefly to a member of his team before stepping out into the paddock.

Their eyes meet. Just for a second.

It’s instinct, Oscar starts toward him before he can stop himself, heart hammering. He’s had enough of silence, of pretending nothing’s wrong. He wants, no, needs, to talk. But the moment he takes a step forward, Lando glances away, shoulders tightening. Then, with deliberate calm, he changes direction, cutting down the side path toward the motorhomes.

Oscar, watching him disappear into the crowd, feels his stomach sink as frustration bubbles up behind his ribs. He clenches his jaw and starts moving, weaving through people scattered around.

“Lando!” He calls, voice easily swallowed by the noise of the paddock. Lando doesn’t turn.

Oscar pushes harder, catching glimpses of Lando between people. And then he’s gone again, vanishing into the maze of truck and team units. Oscar turns a corner too fast and nearly collides with a barrier, the frustration now bubbling over.

He stops, chest heaving, scanning around him for any flash of papaya. Nothing. Lando’s gone, just gone.

“Fuck,” Oscar mutters under his breath, the word half a sigh, half a growl. He steps back and kicks the wall beside him, not hard enough to do any real damage, but hard enough for the jolt of pain to cut through the heat in his chest. The dull thud echoes back at him, almost mockingly. It does little to help.

He doesn’t even realise someone’s walking up to him until he hears someone call his name. “Oscar?”

He looks up. Charles is leaning against the railing outside the Ferrari motorhome, in his Ferrari gear, a water bottle in one hand and an easy smile on his face.

“Oh,” Oscar blinks. “Hey.”

“Can I ask what that wall ever did to you?” Charles asks lightly, eyebrow lifting.

Oscar drags a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“Mm,” Charles hums, tilting his head and studying him. “You want to talk about it? Whatever it is that has you kicking innocent walls.”

Oscar looks away, jaw tightening. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing usually doesn’t look like you stalking through the paddock ready to explode,” Charles says, voice light but eyes sharp. “What’s going on, mon ami?”

Oscar hesitates. He really shouldn’t but the frustration and confusion are eating away at him, and Charles had once told him that if he ever needed someone to talk to, he could talk to him. So he takes a breath.

“Okay,” Oscar starts carefully. “So, hypothetical. Let’s say someone… kissed you. Someone you’re friends with. And then they told you they shouldn’t have done it, and now they’re avoiding you like you’ve got the plague. What would you do?”

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Hypothetical, huh?”

Oscar sighs. “Very hypothetical.”

Charles nods slowly, pretending to take it seriously, though there’s a faint twitch of amusement in his mouth. “Alright. So, in this very hypothetical situation… do you want to talk to this person?”

“Yes. But they won’t even look at me.”

“Okay,” Charles says. “First thing, if this hypothetical person has kissed you and is now ignoring you and pretending nothing happened, it’s not about you, it’s about them.”

Oscar glances up, hesitant. “What if they regret it?”

Charles shakes his head. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. But if they’re confused, that’s not something you’re supposed to fix for them. They owe you a conversation, not avoidance.”

Oscar lets out a shaky laugh. “They’re not exactly making it easy.”

“No they wouldn’t,” Charles says gently. “Because that’s what most people do when they’re scared, they run. They convince themselves it’s easier to ignore it than face what they feel. But you can’t chase someone who’s decided to hide. All you can do is be ready when they stop running.”

Oscar’s quiet for a moment, staring out at the paddock. “And if they don’t?”

Charles tilts his head. “Then you make peace with the fact that you tried. But from what I know about him…” he trails off, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “He’ll come around. It’s Lando. He never sits still for long.”

Oscar blinks, startled. “You…”

Charles laughs softly. “Please mon ami. You two have been giving each other heart eyes across the paddock since Melbourne.”

Oscar groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “That obvious?”

“Only to everyone,” Charles says lightly. Then his voice softens. “Look, I know Lando. He overthinks everything. He’ll spiral, convince himself he’s the problem, that he shouldn’t want what he wants. But if you care about him, and you clearly do, you just need to find a way to tell him the truth. No games, no waiting for him to make the first move. Just be honest.”

Oscar exhales slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

Charles smiles and takes a sip of his water, before glancing at Oscar one more time. “And Oscar,” he says, tone kind but edged with warning, “if Lando doesn’t listen, if he hurts you, tell me.”

Oscar blinks, startled. “Charles…”

“I’m serious,” Charles cuts in, grinning but not joking. “He might be a world champion but I can still put him in a wall if I have to.”

That makes Oscar laugh and Charles’ expression softens further. “For what it’s worth mon ami, Lando’s probably just as miserable as you are right now.”

“Yeah,” Oscar nods, smiling faintly. “Thanks, Charles.”

“Anytime,” Charles says, bumping his shoulder as he walks past. “Just maybe don’t kick any more walls on your way back.”

Oscar laughs again, shaking his head as he watches Charles disappear back into Ferrari’s hospitality unit, the sound of fans cheering somewhere in the distance. The advice echoes in his head, simple but grounding. For the first time all week, he feels like maybe things aren’t entirely hopeless.

He takes a deep breath, the decision already forming before he realises he’s made it. Lando can avoid him all he wants, but not forever.

…

The air at Spa is heavy with mist and threatening rain in the lead up to lights out. The grandstands are soaked but the place still feels electric even from inside the Alpine garage, the energy pulsing through the walls and echoing in Oscar’s chest. Engines roar in waves outside, each lap a vibration that runs through the concrete floor. The smell of rubber, fuel, and rain-soaked tarmac mixes into something almost metallic.

He’s supposed to be focused on keeping track of data and tyre deg to support Alpine’s strategy, but his attention keeps slipping toward the broadcast feed playing on one of the side monitors. To the papaya car that always, always pulls his eyes first.

The question on everyone’s tongues since qualifying yesterday has been how Lando is going to recover from his disastrous qualifying. Everyone’s been talking about how uncharacteristic it was, how off his rhythm he seemed. Oscar’s stomach has been tight ever since. He knows Lando won’t let it go easily.
“And it’s lights out and away we go!” The commentary crackles through the feed.

Engines scream. A wall of motion hurtles into turn one.

“A clean start from the front, Verstappen comfortably ahead going into the first turn,” the commentator shouts. “And a fantastic start from Norris, already making up two positions by the time he reaches the top of Eau Rouge.”

Oscar’s eyes fly to the screen, his fingers twitching against his tablet. He watches as Lando threads through the chaos. There’s no flashiness to it, just raw precision. By the end of lap one, he’s up to ninth. By the end of lap ten, he’s seventh.

“Unbelievable pace from Lando Norris today,” the commentator says, voice rising with the growing energy. “That McLaren is flying. He’s absolutely making up for that disastrous qualifying yesterday. This is vintage Norris, calm under pressure, relentless through the corners.”

The onboard camera flicks to Lando’s cockpit, his hands working the wheel, smooth and deliberate.

“Lando do you think we can make target lap?” The static-like voice of Lando’s engineer comes over the radio feed.

“Uh yep,” Lando responds. “Tyre’s feel good for now.”

“Copy. Let’s go hunting.”

By the halfway mark of the race, pit stops well underway, Lando is now in fifth.

“Here he comes again!” The commentary roars. “Norris is on a charge! That’s seven places he has now made up since the start. And look at the gap to his teammate Alex Dunne disappearing ahead. McLaren versus McLaren. Teammates about to go wheel to wheel.”

Oscar leans forward unconsciously. His heart is beating too fast, pulse jumping with every gear change.

The two papaya cars flash side by side after coming out of Les Combes, water spraying from the wet patches that haven’t quite dried yet. Lando’s tucked into the slipstream going up Eau Rouge, waiting for his moment.

“Surely not here,” the second commentator says, laughing nervously. “Surely he doesn’t try it here…”

But Lando does.

He darts to the inside, late on the brakes, car steady as stone as he dives into Radillion.

“Norris goes for it!” the shout echoes through the garage. “He’s side by side with his teammate. This is either very brave or very stupid. He’s managed to get the inside line…”

For a heartbeat, it’s perfect. Lando’s ahead, the move clean, Alex half a car length behind. Then Alex drifts across too early, the slightest touch on the rear wheel.

Contact.

The cars snap together. Sparks and tyre smoke erupt. The papaya blur slides sideways, spinning in a violent arc. The cameras catch it all. Oscar’s breath catches in his throat. His stomach drops as he watches the car bounce off the kerb and slam sideways into the barriers, carbon fibre exploding around the car like shrapnel. The vibration and sound echoing across the paddock. But it’s the silence that follows directly afterwards that’s the most disarming.

“Contact between the two McLarens! And it’s Norris into the barriers.”

Oscar’s knuckles are white as he grips the tablet in his hands. He whole body feels tights, locked in place. “Come on,” he whispers, barely audible. “Get out. Please get out.”

They’re replaying the crash again on the broadcast feed, Lando’s car clearly in front, the hit coming from the side. The commentator’s voices shift from excitement to concern. “That was a heavy impact for Norris. You can see the rear suspension is completely gone. We’ll wait for confirmation that he’s okay…”

Seconds feel like minutes. The McLaren sits still, twisted and smoking. Then movement, arms raise up over the halo and Lando is hauling himself out, one hand braces on the chassis as he climbs free. Race marshals quickly surrounding him.

The moment Lando’s feet hit the ground, Oscar’s knees nearly give out from the wave of relief that hits him. He exhales hard, not even realising he’d been holding his breath, his head drops for a moment, shoulders trembling.

The crowd outside erupts. The noise pours through the garage walls, raw and thunderous.

“Lando Norris is out of the car and walking away!” the commentator says, voice breaking with relief. “But McLaren will not be happy with that. That was a huge misjudgement on Dunne’s end.”

“Yeah but should Lando have tried the overtake in that corner?” The second commentator questions. “It’s a risky move, and it clearly did not pay off.”

On the screen, Lando is walking off the track, helmet still on but shaking his head in frustration, shoulders stiff beneath his suit.

Oscar sinks back into his chair and drags in a breath that shakes as it leaves him. The adrenaline is still coursing through his veins, but the panic’s started to ebb, leaving behind exhaustion and a faint nausea.

Someone in the Alpine garage mutters something about how rough the hit looked, how lucky Lando is to walk away from that with the modern protective measures. Oscar can’t even respond. He just nods faintly, eyes still locked on the replay now looping on screen, the hit, the barrier, the silence before motion.

He tears his gaze away only when he realises his hands are still trembling. He presses them together in his lap to hide it.

For the rest of the race, his focus is gone, it all blurs into meaningless noise. The only thing that sticks in his mind is the visual of Lando going into the barriers over and over again.

As soon as the race is over, Oscar makes his escape from the Alpine garage, ignoring the surprised and curious looks from the mechanics. He heads towards the McLaren hospitality, every step he takes feels heavier, more frantic. As he gets closer he realises that they probably won’t tell him anything, probably can’t. Luckily for Oscar, he recognises Lando’s PR manager standing outside and she sees him heading her way.

“Oscar…” she starts to say.

“Is Lando okay?” His voice cracks.

“He’s okay,” she says softly. “He’s been cleared by medical, no concerns, just a few bumps and bruises. He should be on his way back here as we speak.”

“Oh thank god,” Oscar breaths out.

“Quite the scare huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you head back to Alpine? Lando will have some media and debriefs to do once he’s back, but I’ll tell him you came by and get him to call you okay?”

Oscar nods, staring at the ground. “Sure, thanks.”

She squeezes his arm gently before heading back inside. Oscar stands there for a moment just watching the bustle of the paddock around him. The relief that Lando’s okay sits uncomfortably alongside something else.

When he finally turns back toward the maze of motorhomes and trailers that line the paddock, the rain has started to fall again, everything glistens, the tarmac, the trailers, the tangled cords that snake along the ground. He tugs his hood up and his shoes splash through shallow puddles as heads back toward Alpine deciding to walk through back alleys of the paddock where all the trucks and storage containers are kept, not wanting to deal with the business of the paddock.

His breaths come out shallow, mixing with the damp air as he turns down another narrow lane between transporters. He’s about to turn into the alley that will take him back to the Alpine area when he spots a flash of papaya orange through the thin fog of exhaust.

Lando.

He’s sitting between two trailers, half hidden in shadow. His race suit is tied around his waist, his undershirt clinging to his chest, hair damp from the rain and sweat from the race. One elbow rests on his knee, fingers pressed against his mouth, head tilted back against the metal siding behind him. He looks spent. Not the usual way Lando looks after a tough race, this is different somehow, hollow.

Oscar freezes. His throat burns. For a moment, he just stands there, trying to make sure it’s real.

“Lando,” he says finally, voice cracking more than he means it to.

Lando’s eyes open slowly, unfocused for a beat before they land on him. “Oscar?” His voice is rough, strained. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve was just heading back to Alpine.” Oscar moves closer, his heart has started going too fast again.

Lando rubs a hand down his face, then across his chest as if trying to shake the tension off. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not a good time.”

Oscar stops in front of him, disbelief washing through the tightness in his chest at Lando’s automatic dismissal. “Not a good time?” He laughs, a breathless, bitter sound. “Lando I’ve been trying to talk to you all week, but you keep avoiding me. You’ve been avoiding me all week and then you go and hit the barrier at high speed and it’s not a good time?”

Lando’s shoulders tense. “I’m fine Oscar.”

“Fine?” Oscar’s voice rises.

“Yes Oscar,” Lando says firmly. “I’m fine, I just need to be left alone right now.”

“Can you please stop avoiding me and just talk to me? Please?”

Lando pushes himself to his feet, anger flashing briefly across his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Something in Oscar snaps, a taut wire that’s been pulling tighter since Silverstone. He moves closer, shoes splashing in a puddle. “Don’t do that.”

Lando frowns. “Do what?”

“Don’t treat me like a kid,” Oscar says, the words sharp with hurt. “Like I wouldn’t understand complex emotions. You don’t get to decide what I can understand and handle. I hated not being able to talk to you this week and now you’re just…” he trails off, gesturing helplessly at the empty air.

Lando opens his mouth to say something but stops, closing it again, his throat working as he swallows.

Oscar shakes his head, anger and worry tangling together until he can’t tell them apart. “You don’t get to shut me out because you think I’m not going to understand something.”

“God Oscar,” Lando sighs, voice breaking with something that sounds like guilt. “You make this so bloody hard.”

Oscar crosses his arm, heart hammering. “Then stop making it harder.”

Lando exhales, long and uneven, and pushes himself to his feet. He wipes his palms on the legs of his race suit before meeting Oscar’s eyes. “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

Oscar blinks, the words hitting harder than he expects. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have done it without asking.” His voice softens, eyes flickering away. “I didn’t mean to… I took advantage. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Lando. I promise.” Oscar’s voice trembles. “But you ghosting me isn’t cool. You can’t do that. You can’t just disappear and expect me to be okay with. You can’t kiss me, tell me you like me, and then act like I imagined it. That’s not fair.”

Lando’s jaw flexes, his hands opening and closing at his sides. “I know.” The silence between them stretches, charged and aching. Lando’s breathing quickens, his eyes darting to the ground. “But it’s not that simple.”

Oscar takes a step closer, his shoes squeaking against the wet asphalt. “Then make it simple. Talk to me.”

Lando’s gaze lifts, and something cracks. “I’ve spent the last week trying to make sense of this? Of you?”

Oscar’s chest tightens.

Lando runs both hands through his hair, pacing a few steps before turning back. “You’re younger. You’ve got a whole career ahead of you, and I…” He shakes his head. “I’m supposed to be the more experienced one here, the one who doesn’t fuck things up. But I did.”

Oscar watches him, confusion mixing with hurt. “So this is about my age? Fuck you Lando.”

“No,” Lando says quickly. “God no, it’s not about you Osc, it’s about everything else. The way people talk. The paddock, the press, they’d eat this alive. You think Alpine would let this slide? You think McLaren would?”

Oscar’s heart thuds painfully. “So you’re scared of what people would think?”

Lando looks away, rain catching in his lashes. “I’m scared of what it’d do to you.”

That knocks the wind out of him.

Lando laughs, hollow, defeated. “I’ve been in this circus long enough to know how they twist things. And if people were to find out, you’d be the kid who slept his way up, or the reserve driver Lando took pity on. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Why are you automatically assuming that everyone is going to know?” Oscar steps forward again, closing the space. “Lando I’ve never felt like this before,” he says, quieter now, like admitting it too loudly might break him. “Not about anyone. And you, you kissed me. Then you left me to figure it out on my own. Please don’t leave me to figure it out on my own.”

For a moment, the only sound is the steady hum of the generators and the rain trickling off the roof. Then Lando swallows hard, eyes glistening under the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’ve been a complete idiot.”

Oscar says nothing. He can feel the tension vibrating in his limbs, the way his hands tremble with the effort of staying still.

Lando exhales, words spilling out like he’s been holding them in too long. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know what to do. I been telling myself for months that it was wrong to feel this way about you. You’re younger, you’re still building your career, and everyone already has an opinion about us.” His voice cracks slightly. “And then there’s me, the guy who can’t even get through a season without the internet analysing who he’s sitting next to. I thought I was protecting you.”

Oscar shakes his head. “By ignoring me?”

Lando’s face tightens. “By pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

That pulls the air out of the space between them.

Lando looks at him properly now, like he’s given up pretending otherwise. “I tried to stop thinking about you. I told myself you were just a friend, just someone I was helping. But every time I saw you, it got harder to believe that.”

Oscar’s heart stumbles.

“I see you when you’re working, and you’re focused, quiet, just watching everything. And I…” Lando cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s fucked, because I know how it looks, and I know what people will say, but I can’t turn it off. I can’t stop wanting to be around you. Wanting to make sure you’re okay. Wanting to…” His voice catches. “Just wanting you.”

“So…” Oscar let’s out a stuttered breath. “What do we do now?”

Lando’s chest rises and falls faster now. He steps forward, one hesitant step that feels like a confession in itself. “You don’t make things easy, you know that?”

Oscar lets out a shaky laugh. “You make everything complicated enough for both of us.”

Something flickers in Lando’s face, relief maybe, or surrender. He closes the distance between them until Oscar can feel the warmth radiating off him, cutting through the damp air.

“I don’t care anymore,” Lando says quietly. “I don’t care what people say. I just want you in my life, however I can have you. If that means being your friend, then okay. But if you want more… if you want this… then I’m done pretending I don’t.”

Oscar stares at him, everything inside him pulling tight and soft at once. “I do,” he says. “I want this. I… I like you Lando.”

Lando’s expression breaks into something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. His grin is uneven and bright, the little gap between his teeth showing like sunlight through clouds. “I like you Osc.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lando laughs. “Come here.”

Lando’s hand finds Oscar’s face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. Oscar leans into it instinctively, the warmth grounding him. Lando hesitates, eyes flicking between Oscar’s lips and his eyes, like he’s checking for permission this time. Oscar nods once, barely noticeable, but just enough.

The kiss starts soft, almost careful, like both of them are afraid the moment will disappear if they move too fast. Lando’s lips are warm against his, tasting faintly of rain and adrenaline. Oscar’s hand finds its way to Lando’s chest, fingers curling against the damp fabric, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Lando exhales into the kiss, one hand sliding from Oscar’s jaw to the back of his neck, deepening it just slightly. Every nerve in Oscar is humming after weeks of holding back.

When they finally break apart, Lando keeps his forehead against Oscar’s, breath mingling in the misty air.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For avoiding you this past week.”

Oscar shakes his head, voice soft. “It’s okay, can we just promise to talk to each other if we have any worries?”

Lando’s smile is small and real. “Yeah, I can promise that.”

Oscar’s fingers still rest against Lando’s chest, feeling the beat steady beneath his palm. The ache that’s been sitting in him for weeks finally starts to ease. For the first time, it feels like they’ve both stopped fighting whatever this is. And standing there between two trailers, drenched in rain and everything unsaid, Oscar knows, there’s no going back.

Chapter Text

Oscar has never been this nervous about a text before. That’s saying something, considering he’s spent most of his career waiting on messages that could change the entire trajectory of his life. But this is different, this is Lando.

He’s reread the conversation at least fifteen times since it came through that morning. ‘I want to take you out’.

‘Out where?’ Oscar had replied.

‘Out. As in a date.’ He doesn’t think he’s ever said yes so fast.

‘Be ready by two. And wear something comfortable,’ Lando had said. It sounded simple at the time, but now, standing in front of his wardrobe, Oscar’s brain refuses to interpret what comfortable means.

He pulls out a hoodie, stares at it, then shoves it back. Too casual. A button-up? Too formal. Jeans? Always jeans, but are they first date jeans or just hanging out jeans?

By the time the clock ticks over to one thirty, the floor of his bedroom looks like a clothing graveyard. Shirts, jackets, shoes, every option wrong for a reason he can’t quite articulate.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror and groans. “You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters to his reflection. “It’s just Lando.”

Except it isn’t just Lando. It’s Lando who kissed him, told him he liked him and hasn’t stopped living rent-free in his head since. Lando who laughs too easily and looks at him like he sees right through all of Oscar’s defences.

He finally settles on a pair of dark jeans, a plain white shirt, and his favourite trainers. It feels neutral enough to pass as effortless, even if it took him forty minutes to get there. He spends another five fussing with his hair before realising he’s never cared this much about his appearance for anything short of a press event.

At one fifty-eight, there’s a knock at the door. Oscar’s pulse spikes instantly. He takes a deep breath, straightens his shirt, and opens the door.

Lando’s standing there, casually leaning against the doorframe like a scene ripped straight from one of those Netflix rom coms his sisters binge. Curls styled to perfection, hoodie a soft grey, jeans perfectly fitted, smile just crooked enough to be infuriating.

“Hey,” Lando says, voice light, eyes flicking over Oscar. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” Oscar blinks. “You too.”

Lando chuckles, stepping back. “You ready?”

“Think so.”

“Good. Got a surprise lined up for you.”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “What kind of surprise?”

“The good kind.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s meant to be mysterious,” Lando says, grinning as he walks towards his car. “Adds to the romance.”

Oscar snorts, locking the door behind him. “You realise that sounds like a bad movie line right?”

“And yet you said yes to going on this date with me,” Lando grins.

“Regretting it already.”

Lando pretends to clutch his chest, faking offence. “Ouch. And here I was planning to sweep you off your feet.”

“Guess we’ll see how that goes.”

Lando holds the passenger door open for him with exaggerated courtesy. “After you, Piastri.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “You’re laying it on thick today.”

“Hey, I can be charming when I want to be,” Lando says, completely straight-faced. “I’m good at commitment. And dates.”

Oscar laughs as he slides into the seat. “Is that what they put on your trophies?”

“No, but they should.”

They pull out onto the main road, music low, conversation easy, at least on the surface. Oscar can feel the buzz of nerves under his skin, every word and glance from Lando tugging him between excitement and disbelief.

After half an hour of easy driving, Lando turns off onto a narrow gravel path. Oscar frowns, looking out the window at the signs flashing by.

And then he sees it.

“Is this a joke?” he asks, half laughing.

“Nope.”

“You’re taking me karting?”

Lando grins like he’s just unveiled the greatest plan in history. “Thought it’d be poetic. You know, back to where it all started.”

Oscar stares at him, incredulous. “This is…”

“I know you struggle with the fact that you’re not in a car yet,” he says quietly. “That it feels like everyone’s moving forward without you. I thought… maybe this could help.”

Oscar blinks at him, caught off-guard. “Help?”

“Yeah,” Lando shrugs, suddenly unsure. “A reminder of what made you love it in the first place. And having fun whilst doing so.”

For a moment Oscar can’t speak. The sound of the car engine filling the silence between them. “Thank you,” Oscar says eventually, quietly.

“You’re welcome Osc,” Lando smiles, small and genuine, just as they pull into the parking lot. Lando kills the engine and jumps out, heading around to the boot. Oscar doing the same. Lando tosses Oscar a set of gloves, the same kind used at professional circuits.

Oscar catches them, eyes widening. “You came prepared?”

Lando smirks. “Always.”

The air smells like petrol and old asphalt, and something inside Oscar hums awake. It’s nostalgia mixed with adrenaline, the echo of childhood weekends spent chasing lap times and trophies.

They suit up, the fluorescent suits too big, helmets clutched under their arms. Lando looks annoyingly good even in the bulky safety gear. He’s grinning, eyes bright behind the visor.

“You ready to lose?” he calls out.

Oscar laughs. “You sure you don’t want to save face and back out now?”

“Not a chance.”

They line up on the grid. Engines sputter to life, the sound sharp and familiar. The flag drops.

For a few laps, it’s chaos, tight corners, elbows out, neither of them playing fair. Lando blocks aggressively, cutting Oscar off on the straight. Oscar retaliates by bumping Lando’s rear wheel just enough to make him yelp through the helmet comms.

“Dirty move, Piastri!”

“Clever move,” Oscar fires back, laughter bubbling in his voice.

They chase each other down lap after lap, the world narrowing to the whine of engines and the rhythm of their breathing. When Oscar overtakes on the inside at the hairpin, Lando groans dramatically through the comms.

“Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

“Talk less, drive more,” Oscar teases.

By the time the chequered flag waves, both are laughing too hard to care who actually won. They pull into the pit lane laughing, engines crackling to silence. Lando’s helmet visor flips up first, and he’s grinning so wide it borders on childish.

“Alright,” he says, voice still breathless. “Admit it. I had you for a few laps.”

Oscar pulls off his own helmet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from heat and adrenaline. “Had me? You tried to block me into a barrier.”

“That’s called strategy.”

“That’s called cheating.”

“Semantics,” Lando says, tugging his gloves off with a grin.

Oscar rolls his eyes but can’t stop smiling. He runs a hand through his damp hair, trying to tame it back into something resembling order. When he looks up again, Lando’s watching him. Not in the competitive, half-joking way from before. This time it’s different. His expression is softer. There’s something in his eyes that makes Oscar’s pulse falter, like he’s trying to memorise every detail.

“What?” Oscar asks, laughing a little, though it comes out nervous.

“Nothing,” Lando says, but his voice is quiet now. His tongue catches the corner of his lip, and that tiny movement sends Oscar’s brain short-circuiting.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

Oscar swallows. “Like that.”

Lando takes a small step closer, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You really want me to answer that?”

Oscar means to reply, to come up with some smart remark, but his breath catches halfway through. Lando’s closer now, close enough that Oscar can smell the faint trace of fuel and soap on Lando’s skin, warm and dizzying.

The question dies in Oscar’s throat when Lando leans in.

The kiss isn’t forceful or rushed. It’s slow, deliberate, the kind that starts soft and grows with every second. Lando’s hand finds the side of Oscar’s neck, his thumb brushing just below his ear. Oscar’s brain empties completely.

When they part, Oscar just stares, chest heaving, lips tingling. “What… what was that for?”       

Lando’s grin is small but sure. “Because I finally can now.”

Oscar’s laugh comes out breathless. “You’re an idiot.”

“And yet,” Lando says, stepping back just enough to grab his hand, “you like me.”

“Yeah I do.”

Lando just grins as he leans in and kisses Oscar again.

“Come on,” he says as he pulls away. “Let’s go again.”

And all Oscar can do is laugh as he follows Lando back onto the track.

…

Dinner is a blur of warmth and conversation. Lando had driven them into town to a tiny Italian place tucked down a side street, one of those restaurants that looks like it hasn’t changed in twenty years, the kind where the waiters greet Lando by name and the lights are always low.

Oscar sits across from him, still half convinced he’s dreaming. Their table is small, their knees brushing under it. Every touch feels magnified.

“So,” Lando says around a mouthful of pasta, “how does it feel knowing you just lost to a four time world champion at karting?”

“I thought we agreed it was a draw.”

“We didn’t.”

Oscar tilts his head. “Right. Forgot humility isn’t part of your vocabulary.”

“Humility’s overrated,” Lando says, deadpan. “Winning’s more fun.”

Oscar’s laugh is real and easy, and something about it seems to make Lando’s entire face soften.

They talk for hours, about growing up, the nights spent in hotels between junior events, the stupid rituals they both had before a race. Lando tells him about his first big win, how his Mum cried and his Dad nearly passed out from stress. Oscar admits he once forgot to eat before qualifying and almost fainted on the cool-down lap.

“You’d think that’d be the kind of thing you would remember,” Lando says, chuckling.

“I was twelve.”

“Still.”

“Fine,” Oscar says, mock serious. “Next time I forget to eat, I’ll make sure to call you.”

“Good,” Lando says, and for a second the playfulness fades. “You can always call me.”

Oscar freezes for a fraction of a moment, because Lando says it so casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he means it.

“Yeah,” Oscar says softly. “Okay.”

The waiter brings dessert and Lando’s coffee. Lando teases him for still refusing to drink coffee, even after all this time.

“You’re missing out,” he says, lifting his cup.

“You keep saying that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until you learn.”

Oscar smirks. “You sound like my Mum.”

“Bet she’s never been this charming.”

Oscar laughs, shaking his head. He doesn’t mean to blush at that, but he does.

The night air is cool when they leave the restaurant. The streets are mostly empty, the faint hum of city noise in the background. Lando’s hand brushes his as they walk, once, twice, before finally catching it.

Oscar looks down at their joined hands, his heart climbing higher into his throat.

“So,” he says quietly. “What does this mean?”

Lando glances at him, eyes warm beneath the streetlight glow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Oscar hesitates, nerves taking over him. “What are we? What am I to you?”

Lando gently pulls Oscar to a stop, a soft smile on his face. “It means I like you Osc, a lot. And I want to keep spending time with you. To see where this goes.”

Oscar swallows, the question sitting heavy in his chest. “So we’re… boyfriends?”

Lando squeezes his hand, smiling that crooked smile that always unravels Oscar’s nerves. “Yeah. We’re boyfriends.”

The word lands with a thud in Oscar’s chest. Heavy and perfect and terrifying all at once. His heart gives a sharp, unsteady lurch, because hearing Lando say it makes it real in a way that scares him.

Oscar’s breath catches. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly. “I just… you were so worried before. About people finding out, about it hurting me.”

Lando’s smile falters for a second, and his voice softens. “I still am. I probably always will be.” He exhales, eyes flicking away for a moment before finding Oscar’s again. “It’s definitely something I’ll have to talk to my therapist about it, how scared I get that I’ll mess this up for you. But I like you too much not to give this a shot.”

Oscar’s throat tightens, warmth flooding through him at the honesty in Lando’s tone. The vulnerability there makes his chest ache in the best way.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “Okay.”

Lando grins wider. The words hang there between them, quiet and certain, before Lando tugs him gently forward again, their hands still entwined, laughter spilling softly into the night air.

…

Hungary is the final race weekend before the Summer break so there’s a sense of finality in the air, a kind of restless energy that hums through the paddock. Everyone feels it, the exhaustion, the anticipation, the desperate push to end the first half of the season on a high before they can finally breathe again.

And somehow, this weekend, everything Lando touches turns to gold.

From the first session of free practice, he’s flying. His sector times are purple and clean, precise, like he’s reading the track in a different language. The McLaren moves the way it does when Lando’s in perfect rhythm with it. Oscar watches from the Alpine garage, arms folded, pretending not to smile every time Lando’s name flashes at the top of the timing screens.

Between sessions, they steal what moments they can. A quick conversation near the media pen when no one’s looking. A grin exchanged as they pass each other in the paddock, separated by walls of papaya and blue.

It’s ridiculous how natural it’s become, pretending nothing’s changed while feeling like everything has.

When they talk, it’s quiet, hidden, soft words tucked behind the noise of the weekend.

Lando had found him after the sprint race earlier, still flushed from victory, and pulled him aside between trucks where the cameras couldn’t see. “I think you might be my lucky charm Osc,” he’d whispered, grinning, and pressed a quick kiss to Oscar’s lips before vanishing into the blur of McLaren staff and celebration.

Oscar’s still thinking about that when qualifying finishes later that afternoon.

The crowd is electric, rain misting the edges of the track as the final lap times lock in. Lando’s on pole again, by three-tenths, his radio crackling with his laughter as he crosses the line.

Oscar’s not sure when he starts moving, only that he ends up outside the McLaren garage as Lando’s car pulls in. The team swarms him immediately, orange overalls and cheers all around. Through the chaos, Lando’s eyes find him.

He grins, the kind that makes Oscar’s world tilt, and jogs straight toward him, helmet still on. “Told you!” he says, voice breathless. “You being here must be good luck.”

Oscar laughs, cheeks heating despite himself. “Pretty sure it’s your driving, not me.”

“Don’t ruin the magic,” Lando teases, leaning closer. “Guess I’ll have to keep you around for every quali now.”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but Lando’s name is shouted from somewhere behind them, a PR manager waving him over toward media.

“Go,” Oscar says quickly, smiling. “Before they hunt you down.”

Lando’s grin widens, softer this time. “Later,” he says, low enough for only Oscar to hear, then jogs off toward the reporters waiting near the podium backdrop.

Oscar watches him go, the rain still light enough to cling to his hair and eyelashes. His chest feels full, warm in a way he hasn’t felt in months. He’s so caught up in it that he doesn’t notice someone stepping beside him until a voice breaks through the noise.

“So,” a voice says lightly.

“Fuck,” Oscar jumps, startled. He turns to find Charles standing there, arms folded, an amused smile tugging at his mouth.

“I take it my advice worked, non?”

“Uh,” Oscar says eloquently, heat climbing to his face. “Yeah. I guess it did.”

Charles chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Good. I was beginning to think you’d both die of stubbornness before admitting it.”

Oscar laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You might not be wrong.”

Charles’ smile softens. “I’m happy for you, Oscar. Really.”

Oscar glances down, still blushing. “Thanks, Charles.”

“Don’t thank me,” Charles says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Just remember, whatever happens, you deserve to be happy. Both of you do.”

Oscar nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

Charles squeezes his shoulder once more before heading off toward the Ferrari motorhome, leaving Oscar standing in the drizzle, watching Lando on the big screen laughing through his post-qualifying interview.

Lando looks radiant, confident, alive. And when he mentions luck again, that small, secret smile flickering across his face, Oscar knows he’s not imagining it this time. He smiles to himself, the sound of the crowd swelling around him, and for the first time in a long while, everything feels right.

…

The morning air in the McLaren hospitality is thick with tension and routine, engineers rushing between rooms, the hum of last minute briefings, the low buzz of journalists crowding outside. It’s familiar chaos.

Oscar shouldn’t be here. Not really. Not in Lando’s driver room, sitting on the edge of the sofa while Lando paces in front of the mirror, running through his pre-race rituals. But the door had been unlocked, and when Oscar knocked softly, Lando’s voice had come through warm and easy.

“Come in.”

Now they’re alone. Just the two of them.

Lando’s in his fireproofs, half zipped up, hair damp from his pre-race shower, the faint smell of his aftershave mixing with the clean scent of the room. He’s quiet, focused, running through invisible checklists under his breath.

Oscar watches him in the reflection. There’s a part of him that always feels small in moments like this, not because of anything Lando does, but because of what he is. A driver at his peak, the world bending toward him.

“You okay?” Lando asks, catching his gaze in the mirror.

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Just don’t want to distract you.”

Lando turns around, grinning. “You’re my good luck charm, remember? You being here’s basically mandatory now.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “You sure you don’t have better pre-race traditions?”

Lando steps closer. “None that work as well as you.”

The words shouldn’t make Oscar’s chest feel this tight, but they do.

There’s a moment of silence, a soft one, fragile around the edges, before Lando’s hand finds the side of Oscar’s neck. It’s gentle, familiar, like muscle memory. Oscar’s breath stutters.

“Lando…” he says quietly, though it comes out more like a plea than a warning.

Lando doesn’t hesitate, eyes flicking between Oscar’s lips and eyes, as he leans in. The kiss starts slow. Oscar’s hand finds the front of Lando’s suit, curling into the fabric. He can feel Lando’s heartbeat under his palm, fast, steady, grounding.

It deepens before either of them think to stop it. Lando’s mouth moving with purpose, parting Oscar’s lips with gently insistence. His tongue tracing along the seam of Oscar’s mouth. Oscar hums at the taste of faint mint and coffee. A low hum escapes Lando as he explores further, his tongue sliding against Oscar’s as Oscar’s body arches further into Lando’s warmth.

Knocking at the door causes them both to freeze and pull apart.

“Lando,” Jon’s voice calls through the door, muffled but unmistakably urgent. “Two minute call, mate.”

Lando’s forehead falls against Oscar’s shoulder, a quiet groan escaping him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Oscar tries not to laugh, biting his lip. “You should probably go.”

“Yeah,” Lando says, though he doesn’t move right away. His voice softens, teasing. “He’s got impeccable timing.”

Oscar’s still smiling when Lando finally lifts his head. They’re close enough that Oscar can see the tiny flecks of gold in Lando’s eyes, the faint curve of his grin.

“Good luck,” Oscar says softly.

“Thanks.” Lando’s voice is rough now, low and sincere. He presses one last kiss to the corner of Oscar’s mouth, quick, but full of meaning, before stepping back. “See you after?”

“Yeah.”

Lando grins at that, grabs what he needs, and heads out the door, the sound of his boots echoing down the hall.

When the race starts, Oscar watches from the Alpine garage, a familiar ache in his chest that’s half nerves, half pride. Lando’s launch is perfect, smooth off the line, defensive into the first turn, slipping through the first lap clean. He’s in rhythm immediately, every sector precise, every corner his. It’s like watching poetry written in motion.

Oscar barely remembers to breathe.

The McLaren pit crew is a blur, and when Lando exits his final stop ahead of everyone else, the roar from the grandstands hits like thunder.

Lap by lap, the gap stretches. Then, finally, the chequered flag waves. Lando Norris wins the Hungarian Grand Prix.

Oscar doesn’t even realise he’s standing until someone in the Alpine garage claps him on the back. The screens flash with Lando’s car crossing the finish line, orange smoke blooming in the crowd. Lando’s voice crackles through the radio feed, laughing, shouting, elated.

“Get in there! What a race, what a weekend!”

Oscar’s throat tightens. He presses a hand to his chest, smiling so hard it hurts. He’s never seen Lando this happy, glowing with it, completely alive. And somewhere deep inside, where the noise of the paddock can’t reach, Oscar thinks that he can’t remember the last time he was this happy either.

…

‘Back in Woking for a few days. Can I come over after? Around 6? I’ll cook.’

Oscar had stared at that text for too long, rereading the words. Lando had arrived in the UK that morning after heading to Monaco for a few days straight after Hungary. It’s stupid how nervous he’d been typing ‘sure’. He’s hung out with Lando plenty of times, they’ve cooked meals together a few times. But never here, never at Oscar’s place.

By the time the clock hits 6pm, he’s a nervous wreck, his palms are clammy. He’s cleaned his entire apartment and has changed shirts twice, still not convinced he’s chosen right.

When the knock finally comes, he opens it to find Lando standing there, curls tucked into a beanie, sleeves rolled up, and grinning with that smile that always makes something in Oscar’s chest flutter.

“Chef Norris reporting for duty,” Lando says holding up a brown paper bag filled with groceries.

“You know you don’t have to cook right? I’m happy to order takeaway,” Oscar replies as he steps aside so Lando can enter.

“Not a chance, I’m not letting you live off takeaway.” Lando turns to look at Oscar, an amused smirk on his face. “You do have an oven right? And like, pans?”

“Yes,” Oscar rolls his eyes, leading Lando into the kitchen space. “Somewhere in here.”

Lando laughs, setting the bag on the counter and pulling things out, mince, pasta, tomatoes, fresh basil. “Eh, we’ll make it work.”

The kitchen fills with movement and warmth as they fall into rhythm quickly. The glow of the overhead light, casting a soft, inviting haze over the benchtop where Oscar stands, knife in hand, methodically slicing carrots into neat rounds. Lando moves around the kitchen with an effortless kind of chaos, humming, spinning, opening cabinets for the sake of it. He sings under his breath, off-key but happy. Oscar leans against the counter, arms folded but unable to stop smiling.

“You’re staring,” Lando says without looking up from the stove.

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. It’s strange, Lando in his small kitchen, sauce on his face, teasing him over his blunt knives and one light that won’t stop flickering. The song on the radio changes, something more upbeat. Lando hums louder, moving to the beat. Then he starts dancing, subtle at first, just a sway of hips, then more exaggerated.

“Are you… dancing?” Oscar says, trying not to laugh.

Lando turns, spoon in hand like a microphone. “You know you love it.”

“I definitely don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Prove it,” Oscar challenges.

Lando grins, spinning dramatically before bumping his shoulder against Oscar's. “You just can’t handle my moves.”

Oscar snorts, looking down at the cutting board. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Lando says softly from behind him. “Look at you, you’re smiling.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

As Oscar turns back to the carrots, focused on the steady rhythm of the blade against the cutting board, he doesn't hear Lando sneak up behind him. Suddenly, warm hands wrap around his waist, and Lando's chest presses lightly against Oscar's back. Oscar stiffens for a second, but Lando’s voice is low against his ear, teasing. “Just making sure you’re slicing those carrots right.”

“You’re stealing them,” Oscar says.

“Quality control,” Lando murmurs, grabbing one and popping it in his mouth.

Lando lips brush Oscar's skin in a stolen kiss, soft and playful, then another, trailing up to his jaw. Oscar chuckles, the sound low and breathy, his hands coming to rest over Lando's where they rest on his hips. “ How am I supposed to finish chopping if you're distracting me?”

Lando hums in response, undeterred, pressing one more kiss to the corner of Oscar's mouth before letting him go and heading back to the stove top.

Dinner somehow turns out perfectly. Pasta, a simple salad, red wine Lando swears he picked out himself but clearly had help choosing. They eat at the counter, shoulders brushing every time they reach for something.

After cleaning up, which consists of Lando “supervising” while Oscar washes dishes, they collapse onto the couch. A movie plays quietly, the only lights on are fairy lights that one of Oscar’s sisters had put up claiming it created ambience. Lando’s arm stretches along the backrest, his fingers just brushing Oscar’s shoulder.

It starts innocently enough, a brush of fingers against Oscar's arm as Lando shifts closer, commenting on something ridiculous in the movie. Oscar turns to respond and their eyes meet, the air thickening with that familiar spark. Lando's gaze drops to Oscar's mouth, and before Oscar can overthink it, Lando leans in, capturing his lips in a kiss that's gentle at first, exploratory. Oscar melts into it, his hand finding the nape of Lando's neck, fingers threading through those soft curls. The kiss deepens naturally, tongues brushing in a slow dance that sends heat pooling low in Oscar's belly.

What begins as affectionate quickly escalates, the intensity building like a revving engine. Lando's free hand slides to Oscar's waist, tugging him closer until Oscar's half in his lap, their bodies aligning in a tangle of limbs. Oscar's heart races, a mix of excitement and something sharper, nerves maybe, as Lando's kisses turn hungrier, nipping at his lower lip, trailing down to his jaw and throat.

“God, Osc,” Lando breathes against his skin, voice rough with want, and Oscar shivers, arching into the touch.

With a gentle but firm push, Lando guides Oscar back onto the couch, laying him down against the pillows. He hovers over him, braced on his forearms, eyes dark and intent as he searches Oscar's face.

“This okay?” Lando asks, checking in, and Oscar nods, breathless, pulling him down for another kiss. Lando's hands roam, tracing the lines of Oscar's chest through his shirt, thumbs circling over his nipples until they harden under the fabric. Oscar gasps into Lando's mouth, the sensation electric, but beneath the pleasure, a knot of uncertainty twists in his gut.

Lando's touch drifts lower, skimming over Oscar's stomach, fingers dipping under the hem of his shirt to caress bare skin. It's thrilling, the way Lando's body presses against his, solid and warm, but Oscar's mind spins. He has no idea what he’s doing, and panic starts bubbling up unbidden. He's never gone this far with anyone. His mind starts swirling with questions, how does he respond? What if he messes it up, says the wrong thing, does the wrong thing? His breath begins to come quicker, not just from arousal but from the fear of the unknown, the vulnerability of it all.

Lando's hand slides to the waistband of Oscar's sweatpants, fingers hooking into the elastic, tugging lightly as if testing the waters. The movie drones on in the background, forgotten, but Oscar's world narrows to the heat of Lando's palm against his hip, the promise of more. And that's when it hits him full force, the panic crests, sharp and overwhelming.

“Stop!” Oscar blurts out, the word escaping louder than he intends, his hands flying up to push at Lando's chest. “Stop… stop, I can’t…”

Lando flings himself back immediately, scrambling off the couch as if burned, his eyes wide with alarm. He lands on his knees on the floor, hands up in a placating gesture. “Shit, Osc… did I hurt you? Are you okay?” His voice is laced with genuine worry, face paling under the lamplight, and Oscar's heart aches at the sight.

Oscar curls into himself on the couch, knees drawing up to his chest, arms wrapping around them as embarrassment floods his cheeks. He buries his face against his knees, the heat of shame burning hotter than any desire from moments ago. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, until Lando's hand touches his shoulder, tentative but soft.

“Hey, talk to me,” Lando says gently, shifting to sit on the edge of the couch beside him. “You can tell me anything, yeah?”

Oscar peeks up, meeting Lando's concerned gaze, and the words tumble out in a rush. “It's not you. I just... I didn't know what I was doing. And when you were touching me, I just… I panicked. I'm sorry.” His voice cracks on the last word, vulnerability raw in the quiet room.

Lando's expression softens instantly, the worry easing into understanding as he rubs soothing circles on Oscar's back. “Oh, Osc,” Lando murmurs, pulling him into a careful hug, tucking Oscar's head under his chin. “You don't have to apologise. Not ever for that.” He holds him close, one hand stroking through Oscar's hair, the other steady on his back. “We'll go at your pace, alright? No rush. We can take our time, figure out what you like, what feels good. I'm here for all of it, step by step. You're not alone in this.”

Oscar exhales shakily, the tension uncoiling bit by bit in Lando's embrace. It feels safe, reassuring, the kind of comfort that chases away the embarrassment. “Yeah?” He whispers.

Lando nods against his hair. “Yeah. Promise.” They stay like that for a while, breaths syncing, until Lando pulls back just enough to press a chaste kiss to Oscar's forehead. “How about we hit pause on everything tonight and just finish the movie? No pressure.”

Oscar manages a small smile, uncurling slightly to nod. “Yeah okay, sounds good.”

They rearrange themselves on the couch, Lando stretched out with his back against the armrest, Oscar nestled against his side, head on his chest. Lando's arm drapes over him, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm, while the TV flickers back to life. The action on screen picks up, explosions and chases filling the speakers, but Oscar's focus is on the steady thump of Lando's heartbeat under his ear, the warmth seeping through their clothes. Oscar feels a quiet contentment settle in, knowing they've got all the time in the world to explore the rest.

Lando’s voice breaks the quiet. “So,” he says, “what are you doing for summer break?”

Oscar hums. “Not much. My sister Hattie’s crashing at mine for last week of break. She’s travelling, doing the whole gap year thing.”

“Yeah, that’s cool. Bet you’re looking forward to spending some time with her.” Lando say.

“Yeah I am,” Oscar nods.

Lando hums. “But apart from that, nothing?”

Oscar shakes his head. “Probably just some sim work.”

Lando sighs dramatically. “You’re hopeless.”

Oscar turns his head, amused. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not spending your break glued to a simulator,” Lando declares.

“And what’s your alternative?”

“Come to Italy with me.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Lando says, eyes bright. “Me and a few mates have a villa booked near Amalfi. Pool, sun, no press. You should come.”

Oscar stares at him. “You want me to go on holiday with you?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Are you sure you won’t get sick of me?” Oscar asks quietly. “I mean we’ve spent a lot of time together, are you sure don’t want to just spend time with your friends?”

“Oscar,” Lando groans. “I would have asked you even if we we’re still just friends.”

“Oh,” Oscar laughs softly. “I don’t know. It’s just… you’re going with your friends, I don’t want to be in the way.”

Lando’s expression softens. “I want you there, Oscar. With me.”

The words land heavy, sincere. Oscar feels something inside him melt. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I’ll come.”

Lando grins, wide and boyish. “Great! It’s a date then.”

Oscar smiles, tucking himself closer against Lando’s chest. Lando’s arm curls around him, hand tracing lazy circles on his side. The sound of the TV fades to background noise.

Oscar closes his eyes and lets himself breathe. For the first time in a long time, everything feels uncomplicated. He thinks about Italy, about sunlight and laughter, about maybe, finally, letting himself be happy without overthinking every step. And with Lando’s heartbeat steady beneath his ear, he realises he already is.

Chapter Text

The few days before Oscar’s due to join Lando in Italy stretch out like the final seconds before the lights go out on the grid, heavy with anticipation and restless energy. Oscar’s phone keeps lighting up. Lando’s name fills the screen again and again, each message worse than the last. First comes a photo of two pairs of boardshorts spread across a bed, one loud and floral, the other navy and understated. ‘Which one makes me look more like boyfriend material?’

Oscar stares at it for a full minute before replying, ‘You’d look ridiculous in the floral ones.’

Lando’s response is instant. ‘So, the floral ones then.’

The next day it’s sunglasses. Then shirts. Then a selfie from the airport shop with Lando holding up sunscreen and a caption that reads, ‘Protecting the money maker.’

Oscar tells him he’s an idiot. Lando sends back a winking emoji.

By the time Friday comes around, Oscar’s stomach is a bundle of nerves. He’s triple checked he has his passport, packed and repacked his bag twice, and still feels completely unprepared. He’s been on hundreds of flights in his life, but somehow this feels different.

The arrival hall at Naples Capodichino Airport hums with noise, suitcase wheels clattering against tile, announcements echoing from high above, the faint smell of coffee and jet fuel drifting together. Oscar blinks against the bright sun bleeding in from the floor to ceiling windows, still a little dazed from the flight.

His phone buzzes with a response from Lando, Oscar having texted that he’d arrived as soon as the plane touched the tarmac. ‘Look for a very professional and handsome chauffeur.’

Oscar rolls his eyes and shoulders his backpack, scanning the crowd of waiting drivers and family reunions.

In the middle of the crowd, wearing a bucket hat and dark sunglasses, Lando stands grinning behind a cardboard sign. The letter are thick and messy, written in black marker, spelling Mr Oscar Piastri with a very wonky smiley face in the corner.

Oscar stops dead, a laugh bursting out before he can stop it. Lando wiggles the sign proudly above his head like he’s greeting royalty.

“You’re an idiot,” Oscar says when he reaches him, voice caught somewhere between fond and embarrassed.

Lando drops the sign with a grin. “A charming idiot. You can admit that.”

Oscar shakes his head, still smiling despite himself. “You didn’t have to come get me. I could’ve caught a cab.”

Lando shrugs, reaching to take Oscar’s backpack. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides I get to spend even more time with you this way.”

Oscar bumps his shoulder against Lando’s as they start walking towards the car. Oscar’s chest feels warm, lighter than it has all week. They weave through the car park, Oscar following a couple of steps behind Lando. Lando spins the car keys around his finger, still wearing that stupid grin that hasn’t left his face since the arrivals hall.

When they reach the car, a sleek back McLaren that gleams under the Italian sun. Lando opens the boot for Oscar’s bag, then shuts it with a soft thud. Oscar looks up ready to thank him but the words catch in his throat when he finds Lando stepping closer, watching him softly.

“Hey, baby,” he says, the word slipping out naturally, casual and affectionate.

Oscar’s reaction is instant, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth and a furrow between his brows. He doesn’t say anything, but he stiffens slightly, hoping Lando didn’t notice.

But of course, Lando does. “You didn’t like that, did you?” he says gently. There’s no accusation in his voice, just curiosity.

Oscar hesitates, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “It’s not that I didn’t like it,” he says slowly, but his tone gives him away.

Lando tilts his head, waiting him out.

Oscar sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It just… I don’t know, it felt weird. Kinda makes me feel… small.” He glances at Lando quickly, as if testing his reaction. “I know you didn’t mean it that way, but it just hit weird.”

Lando nods, no hesitation, just understanding. “Okay. No baby.” He pauses for a beat, a teasing light flickering back in his eyes. “What about love, then?”

Oscar makes a face again before he can stop himself. “That one too,” he admits, cheeks colouring. “It’s just, same thing, I guess. Makes me feel… younger, smaller. Like I’m someone you have to look after, not…” He trails off, clearly uncomfortable with saying it out loud.

“Not someone I’m with,” Lando finishes for him, voice soft.

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause before Lando’s grin returns, softer this time. “Alright, no baby, no love.” He leans in, nudging Oscar’s shoulder. “So is there anything you do like being called then?”

Oscar’s mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I like Osc. I like when you call me that.”

Lando’s expression melts into something warm and genuine. “Yeah?”

”Yeah,” Oscar confirms, his face flushed red now.

“Osc,” Lando repeats, testing the word like he’s tasting it. “Yeah, that’s my favourite too.”

Oscar finally relaxes, the tightness in his chest easing. 

“Okay, let’s try this again shall we?” Lando chuckles.“Hey Osc,” Lando says quietly. It’s barely more than a breath.

“Hi,” Oscar whispers back.

Lando’s hand finds the side of his face, thumb brushing his jaw as he leans in and kisses him quickly. “Proper hello,” Lando says when he pulls back, a crooked grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Oscar smiles.

Lando opens the passenger door for him with a little flourish. “Welcome to Italy Mr Piastri. Your chauffeur will try to keep his hands to himself for the rest of the journey.”

Oscar lets out a snort as he slides into the seat. “No promises you’ll manage that.”

Lando leans down just enough to meet his eyes. “You might be right about that.” Then he shuts the door, still smiling and circles round to the drivers side.

The drive up the coast to the villa is long and sunlit, the kind of afternoon that smells like salt and heat. The windows are down, warm wind rushing through the car as the hills roll by, olive trees giving way to glimpses of the sea.

Lando’s been talking non-stop since they left the airport. He’s all sunglasses and energy, narrating everything they pass, the road signs, the driver in front of them, the weird statue outside a service station.

Oscar listens quietly, one arm resting against the window. He doesn’t really mind Lando’s constant chatter. It’s grounding in a way, filling the space between them with easy noise that keeps his nerves at bay.

By the time they reach the villa, the sun is dipping lower, the light turning gold. The house itself is sprawling and impossibly gorgeous, terracotta walls, white shutters, bougainvillea creeping up the balconies. A group of voices carries from the patio, laughter and clinking glasses.

“Home sweet home,” Lando says as they step inside where it’s chaos. Bags are everywhere, music’s playing, and Lando’s friends are already deep into drinks and stories.

Oscar stiffens immediately. He hadn’t expected this, to walk in on everyone already relaxed, half-drunk, perfectly in sync. He’s suddenly hyperaware of how out of place he feels, standing in the doorway with his small bag still in hand.

“Hey, you made it,” Max calls, grinning from the couch. “Good to see you again Oscar.”

Oscar smiles, feeling some of tension relax at the familiar face. “Hey Max, good to see you too.”

Oscar recognises most of the others from meeting them throughout the first half of the season, Max, Pietra, Keegan, Matt, Ryan and Ruby. Ruby smiles at him, though there’s something sharp in it, like she’s remembering the awkward bar night in Australia.

“Couldn’t leave the kid behind, hey?” Matt, one of Lando’s mates, leans back in his chair with a lazy smirk.

The laughter that follows is light, but it hits hard. Oscar feels his stomach twist, already worried that his insecurities were going to ruin this trip.

Before he can even process it, Lando’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp, decisive, completely unlike his usual easy tone.

“Alright,” he says, stepping forward, his smile gone. “Let’s get one thing straight. Oscar’s here because I want him here. He’s my guest. So anyone who’s got a problem with that can take it up with me, or pack up and leave.”

The room goes silent. The tension is instant and absolute. Even the music feels quieter.

Matt blinks, clearly not expecting the pushback. “Jesus, Lando, it was a joke.”

Lando doesn’t flinch. “Then maybe work on your punchlines.”

Ruby makes a quiet sound from the couch, rolling her eyes. “Boys, please.”

Max gets up to stand beside Lando and Oscar. “No, Lando’s right guys, no snarky comments or jokes about Oscar. It’s not called for.”

Lando exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. He looks around one last time, daring anyone to speak, before clapping his hands. “Great. Now that’s sorted, who’s on drinks?”

The moment dissolves. Conversations restart, the music turns up again. But Oscar’s still rooted in place, pulse hammering in his chest.

Lando turns to him, eyes softening immediately. “Come on,” he murmurs quietly, brushing his fingers against Oscar’s arm. “Let’s drop your stuff upstairs.”

He leads him up the narrow staircase, their footsteps echoing on the tiles. Their room is at the end of the hall, sun spilling in through the balcony doors, the view stretching out to the glittering water beyond.

Lando throws his bag onto the nearest bed and turns back to him. “You good?”

Oscar nods, too quickly. “Yeah, fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Lando folds his arms, studying him. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing back there?”

Oscar shifts his weight, eyes darting to the floor. “No you didn’t. It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

Lando steps closer, head tilting. “You’re blushing,” he says, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Why are you blushing?”

Oscar groans under his breath. “You’re not going to drop it, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Oscar exhales, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

There’s a beat where he considers lying, brushing it off, making a joke. But something about the way Lando’s looking at him, open and unguarded, makes him want to tell the truth.

“It’s just… when you stood up for me,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. It was…” He trails off, cheeks burning hotter.

Lando’s grin softens into something quieter. “It was what?”

Oscar swallows hard. “It was… kind of hot.”

For a second, Lando just blinks. Then the grin returns, wide and entirely unfiltered. “Yeah?”

Oscar buries his face in his hands. “Forget I said that.”

“Oh, no way,” Lando says, stepping closer, laughter curling through his voice. He wraps his fingers around Oscar’s wrists, pulling them away from his face but doesn’t let go once their arms fall down to their sides. “I’m never forgetting that. ‘Hot,’ huh?”

Oscar groans again, but he’s smiling this time, the mortification fading into something lighter. “I hate you,” he mutters.

“No you don’t,” Lando says, smug now, “you keep hanging around me.”

Oscar looks up, shaking his head. “Maybe I just like the view.”

Lando’s eyebrows lift, amused surprise flickering over his face. “Did you just flirt with me, Piastri?”

Oscar shrugs, pretending nonchalance. “Maybe.”

Lando laughs, that warm, full sound that always seems to fill the space around him. He lets go of Oscar and walks to the balcony doors and pushes them open, sunlight flooding in. “Come on,” he says over his shoulder. “Let’s go enjoy the view properly.”

Oscar follows, heart still racing, but the tightness in his chest has eased.

“Alright,” Lando says, leaning against the railing. “New rule for the week.”

Oscar blinks, still taking in the view of the ocean stretching before them. “Rule?”

Lando nods, crossing his arms. “If anyone says something stupid to you, about your age, whatever, you tell me, okay? Straight away.”

“Lando…”

“I’m serious,” Lando’s tone softens, but the crease between his brows stays. “I want you to have a good time this week. And that means no crap from anyone, no feeling like you have to shrink yourself to fit in.”

Oscar’s fingers start picking at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. “You don’t have to…”

“I do,” Lando cuts in, voice firm but not sharp. “Oscar you’re here as my guest. You’re my boyfriend,” Oscar blushes at the casual way Lando says the word, Lando smiling when he notices. “That means you get to enjoy it without dealing with any of that rubbish.”

Oscar looks at him and there’s a flicker of something warm in Lando’s eyes, protective maybe, but it makes Oscar’s chest ache a little.

“I don’t want to come between you and your friends,” Oscar says quietly after a beat. “They’ve known you way longer than I have. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Lando exhales, crossing the small space between then until he’s standing right in front of Oscar. “You’re not coming between anyone,” he says. “If they can’t treat you right, that’s on them, not you. I’d rather deal with a bit of awkwardness from calling out their bullshit behaviour than watch you feel out of place.”

Oscar searches his face, trying to find some edge of humour, but Lando’s gaze doesn’t waver. There’s no joke there, just honest sincerity.

“Okay,” Oscar says finally, voice low.

Lando smiles. “Good,” he squeezes Oscar’s hands. “Because this week’s about you having fun, not stressing about what anyone else thinks. Deal?”

Oscar nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Deal.”

“Good,” Lando leans in, pressing a quick peak to Oscar’s lips. “Now unpack before I decide to make another rule.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but follows Lando back inside anyway.

…

By the time dinner rolls around, the villa smells like garlic and sea air and something grilled. The long table on the terrace glows under strings of lights, half the group already seated and shouting across each other. Someone’s opened another bottle of wine.

Oscar trails behind Lando as they carry dishes outside, the noise and warmth washing over him. He feels slightly out of place again but less so than earlier, maybe because Lando keeps brushing against him, shoulder to shoulder, small reassuring touches that feel deliberate.

“Alright,” Lando says, setting down a bowl of pasta salad like he’s presenting a trophy. “Chef Norris at your service.”

“That’s a stretch,” Max says, pouring himself a drink. “Pretty sure Pietra did all the work.”

“She supervised,” Lando insists, grinning.

Pietra laughs. “I literally cooked the entire meal.”

“Semantics,” Lando says, slipping into the seat beside Oscar.

Everyone’s half a bottle deep already, laughter bouncing off the stone walls.

Oscar tries to relax into the noise. He’s doing better than earlier, smiling when someone jokes about Lando’s tan, quietly answering questions about travel, about Australia. The wine helps.

Then Ryan leans forward, elbows on the table, and says too casually, “Hey, Oscar, rough news about Alpine, huh? Sorry, mate.”

Lando freezes beside him, and conversations pause around them.

Oscar blinks, forcing a polite smile. “Oh. Yeah, It’s… fine.”

Ryan keeps going, clearly meaning well but missing every cue. “Can’t imagine that feels great. You’ve been waiting for that seat forever, right? Then boom! Rookie comes in and snags it.” He whistles. “Brutal.”

The silence stretches uncomfortably.

Lando sets his fork down with a sharp clink. “Ryan,” he says evenly, “read the room.”

Ryan laughs awkwardly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just saying it sucks.”

“Yeah, well,” Lando says, tone still calm but threaded with steel, “Another rule, no racing talk this week. That goes for both me and Oscar. So just… eat your food and let people enjoy their night.”

The others glance at each other, tension rippling through the table.

“No, it’s fine,” Oscar cuts in quickly, cheeks burning. “Really, it’s fine.”

Then Max exhales, low and deliberate, and breaks the tension. “Alright, can we please not turn dinner into a press conference?” He raises his glass toward Oscar. “To better teams and better days.”

There’s laughter again, forced at first, then genuine. The tension dissolves and the group starts talking over each other, eager to move on.

Oscar’s beginning to relax again. He’s halfway through listening to Pietra tell a story about her and Max getting lost in Naples when he feels it, a brush against his hand under the table.

At first, he thinks it’s accidental, a casual bump. But then Lando’s fingers linger, tracing over the side of his palm like a question. Oscar glances sideways, trying not to move too much. Lando’s mid-laugh, chin tilted back, completely at ease. Except his hand is still there, deliberate now, thumb brushing over Oscar’s knuckles.

Oscar’s breath catches. He hesitates, one heartbeat, two, then turns his hand, lacing his fingers through Lando’s. The connection is hidden by the tablecloth, but it feels like the loudest thing in the room. Lando’s thumb moves in slow circles, absentminded but intimate. Oscar’s skin feels like it’s buzzing everywhere. He keeps his gaze fixed on his plate, trying to pretend his pulse isn’t hammering in his ears.

Then he looks up and freezes. Across the table, Max is watching them.

Not in an obvious way, not enough to draw attention from the others, but his eyes are sharp, amused. He raises one eyebrow, just slightly, then looks at where their arms sit too close together, disappearing under the table. When he looks back up, he has the faintest smirk curls the edge of his mouth.

Lando catches it immediately. Their eyes lock, a silent standoff across the wine bottles and half eaten bread.

Max mouths, barely moving his lips, ‘Really?’

Lando doesn’t even blink. He leans an inch closer to Oscar, pretending to reach for his glass, and mutters under his breath, so low only Max can hear, “Fuck off.”

Max bites back a grin, hiding it behind his drink. He raises his glass in a small toast, silent, smug, before turning to the others to start another conversation as if nothing happened.

Oscar doesn’t dare look back up. Lando’s hand tightens around his, firm and reassuring, before he slowly lets go. A moment later, he leans in close, his breath brushing Oscar’s ear. “Ignore him,” he murmurs, voice low and amused.

Oscar blinks, trying to keep his composure. “Wasn’t planning on doing anything else.”

“Good.” Lando sits back, taking another sip of wine like nothing happened. “You’re doing great, by the way. Very inconspicuous.”

Oscar elbows him under the table, which only makes Lando laugh harder.

And just like that, the tension breaks again. The noise of conversation swells, Max’s laugh cutting across the table, someone asking who’s doing dessert. But for the rest of the meal, every time Lando’s knee bumps Oscar’s, he doesn’t move it away.

…

The night air is warm, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen, the sea just a whisper beyond the trees. Oscar sits on the balcony with a book open in his hands. The villa hums quietly around him, laughter faint from another room, a door closing somewhere downstairs.

He’s halfway through a page when the glass door slides open behind him. Bare feet on tile. Then arms slide over his shoulders, looping around his chest, and a chin settles lightly on his shoulder.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” Lando murmurs, breath ghosting against Oscar’s ear.

Oscar smiles, settling his thumb between the pages. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Lando hums, the sound vibrating against Oscar’s back. His arms tighten for a second before he pulls back, brushing his nose against Oscar’s neck as he does. “Come for a swim,” he says. “Before bed. It’s too nice out to waste it.”

Oscar glances up at him, amused. “You mean you want to swim, and you don’t want to go alone.”

“Maybe,” Lando says with a grin, already stepping  back and offering his hand. “Come on Piastri. You’ll like it.”

He does. The water is cooler than he expects, enough to shock the breath out of him before it settles into something calm. They float for a while, the pool lights turning everything soft and blue. Lando drifts closer until their shoulders bump.

“Hey,” Lando breaks the silence first. “You heard anything more about your contract next season? From Alpine or another team?”

Oscar’s head tilts towards him. “What happened to no racing talks?”

Lando groans, splashing some water toward Oscar. “Come on.”

Oscar laughs before he shakes his head. “No.” His voice is quiet. “I thought maybe I would by now, but…” He trails off, the word but hanging between them like it explains everything. “I don’t know, Mark said he would make some calls. So… just a waiting game I guess.”

Lando looks at him for a long moment. “Something will come up Osc.”

Oscar gives a small, humourless laugh. “Yeah.”

“I mean it,” Lando says firmly. “You’re too good for any team to ignore forever. You know that, right?”

Oscar looks away again, his voice barely audible. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe that.”

Lando shifts slightly closer, the movement causing subtle ripples in the water. “Then I’ll believe it for you.”

Oscar blinks caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t have to carry that on your own,” Lando says simply. “If they can’t see it, I will. And I’ll remind you until you do too.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. “You don’t have to…”

“What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t,” Lando cuts in gently. “You’re not just some reserve driver, Oscar. You’ve got something special. I’ve seen it. So have many others. You’ve just got to hold onto that.”

Oscar stares at the water again, his reflection trembling across the blue. “Thanks,” he says eventually, voice soft.

Lando hums in response. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t give up, alright?”

“I won’t,” Oscar says, though it sounds more like a promise to himself than to Lando.

…

The next few days melt together in a haze of light and salt and laughter. Mornings start slow, sunlight spilling through the shutters, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen. Lando always gets up first, loud and dramatic about making breakfast even when he burns the toast. Oscar trails in later, still sleepy, hair rumpled, and Lando grins like it’s his favourite sight in the world. They eat on the terrace with the others, bare feet up on chairs, trading stories and lazy smiles as the day stretches ahead.

The afternoons are all warmth and noise. Beach days blur together, wet sand sticking to skin, the air thick with sunscreen and salt, everyone shouting over each other about who’s the fastest swimmer. Lando is always at the centre of it, charming, loud, soaking in the attention like sunlight. Yet every so often, his eyes find Oscar’s, and something shifts, the grin softens, the noise fades. Sometimes it’s just a shared glance. Other times, a quick brush of fingers when no one’s watching, a quiet word in the shade of a towel.

Oscar begins to unwind in ways he didn’t realise he could. He starts joining in on the teasing, splashing Lando back when he tries to dunk him in the water, laughing so hard he can’t catch his breath. He stops worrying about what the others might say or how it might look with him in the photos and actually leans into them, letting Lando pull him close for group shots, both of them sun dazed and smiling.

One afternoon, they’re all out on a rented boat, the sea a sheet of glittering turquoise. Someone dares them to jump off, and within seconds there’s chaos, laughter, splashes, the water shockingly cool against their skin. Lando surfaces first, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bright with salt and sunlight. He’s laughing, full and loud, and Oscar finds himself just watching. Memorising. The curve of Lando’s mouth, the way his shoulders gleam with water, the sound of his joy echoing out over the sea.

Later, when they’ve all dried off and are sprawled on towels under the sun, the mood turns quiet. The afternoon sun hangs heavy above them, sinking gold into the sea. The boat rocks lazily with the swell, a slow rhythm that makes everything feel drowsy, suspended in that blur between day and evening.

Everyone is doing their own thing as they enjoy the last of the afternoon sun. Max is murmuring something to Pietra as they sit together on the couches. Matt and Ruby napping on one of the lounge seats. Keegan and Ryan sitting at the table with a deck of cards between them.

Out on the bow, Lando and Oscar have claimed the wide day bed, the fabric warm against their skin, salt drying in pale streaks on their arms. Lando’s hair is still damp, curling at the edges, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. He doesn’t seem to care as he lies on his stomach beside Oscar, one arm draped loosely across Oscar’s waist, his fingertips tracing slow, idle shapes on Oscar’s back. Circles, lines, little patterns that don’t seem to mean anything but make Oscar’s skin prickle all the same.

Oscar lets out a faint hum. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“Yeah,” Lando admits easily.

Oscar cracks one eye open. “Should I be worried?”

Lando’s voice drops low, softer than before. “No. Just thinking I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Like what?”

“So… calm,” Lando says. “Carefree.” He hesitates, then adds quietly, “I like it. I like this look on you.”

Oscar turns his head, opening both eyes now. Lando’s still looking at him, sunlight turning his hair almost gold. The moment stretches, warm and weightless.

Oscar’s mouth twitches into a small smile. “You make it sound like I’m usually a mess.”

Lando grins, that familiar spark returning. “You said it, not me.”

Oscar huffs, reaching out and pinching Lando’s arm in retaliation. Lando laughs, dodging, and the sound curls in Oscar’s chest, easy, familiar, and everything he’s starting to realise he doesn’t want to live without.

…

That night, the villa hums with music and the sound of everyone getting ready. Someone’s speaker blares from a bedroom down the hall, Max is calling for his keys, and Pietra is shouting something about meeting at the club by midnight. It’s chaos in the warm, glowing kind of way that holidays always end up being.

Oscar’s sitting on the couch, half listening, half hoping Lando will say something that means they’re staying in for the night. He’s comfortable here, in the quiet glow of the lamps, the faint smell of salt still clinging to his skin. The idea of a crowded club feels too loud, too much.

When the others start filing out, Lando calls after them, “We might stay in tonight.”

“Uh huh,” Max smirks as he passes before lowering his voice so only Lando and Oscar can here. “Make sure to be safe?”

Oscar goes scarlet. It starts high on his cheeks, blooms down his neck until he’s sure it’s reached his chest. He sits up a little straighter on the couch.

“Max,” Lando scolds, shooting his best mate a sharp look.

Max puts his hands up in mock defence. “Alright, alright. We’re going. See you later.”

When it’s finally quiet, Lando turns to Oscar with a crooked smile. “You know, you’re very cute when you blush.”

Oscar groans and puts his hands over his face, which only makes Lando laugh harder.

“Come on,” Lando says, coming around to sit beside Oscar on the couch. “Movie?”

Oscar nods, relieved. “Yeah, sounds good.”

They scroll through the streaming options for far too long before settling on something they both pretend they actually want to watch. Lando flops down next to him, close enough that their knees touch. It’s casual, or it’s meant to be, but Lando’s touch mixed with Max’s words from earlier has Oscar’s pulse not seeming to understand that.

Half an hour in, the plot’s lost somewhere between them. Their conversation drifts, their hands brushing when they reach for the same packet of chips. The touch lingers this time, fingers sliding past each other as Lando laces their hands together, resting in the space between them. Thumbs tracing slow circles. Oscar glances sideways, and Lando’s already looking at him. The movie’s nothing but background noise now, a flicker of light that barely touches the edges of what’s happening.

Lando shifts, slow, testing, his knee brushing Oscar’s. “You okay?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, a little rough. “More than okay.”

Lando’s grin softens into something that isn’t teasing. Oscar moves first, just barely, a tilt forward that’s half instinct, half courage. Their lips meet, slow and uncertain at first, both of them testing the shape of it. Then Lando presses closer, deepening it, his other hand coming up to rest against Oscar’s jaw, thumb stroking his skin like he’s afraid to stop. The kiss grows, soft but hungry.

Oscar’s fingers twist in Lando’s shirt, pulling him closer. There is care in the way Lando kisses him, like he is listening as much as he is touching. Oscar’s hand slides up Lando’s arm, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt, and a soft hum slips from his throat.

The movie disappears entirely. The only sound that matters is their breathing, growing heavier, closer.

Heat builds between them, new and insistent. Oscar shifts without quite meaning to, his body chasing something it doesn’t recognise even ashis mind feels dazed. He ends up half in Lando’s lap, their kisses turning slow and hungry, lips warm and swollen. The friction of denim against denim makes Oscar gasp, a sharp, helpless sound.

He presses forward instinctively, grinding against Lando’s thigh, chasing the pressure that sparks pleasure through him. It feels overwhelming and too much and not enough all at once.

Lando pulls back just enough to steady him, hands warm and firm on Oscar’s hips. The sudden stillness makes Oscar whine, eyes fluttering open to find Lando watching him, not amused or impatient, just concerned and focused.

“Hey, Osc, slow down a sec,” Lando murmurs, thumbs rubbing small, grounding circles into Oscar’s skin. “What do you want? Talk to me.”

Oscar’s body reacts before his head does, a small, startled sound catching in his throat as he freezes. His cheeks burn. He shifts back instinctively, putting a sliver of space between them, eyes dropping to the couch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, words tumbling out thin and breathless. “I’m sorry, I… I got carried away. I don’t…”

Lando moves immediately. “Hey, no,” he says softly, hands sliding from Oscar’s hips to his arms, gentle but sure. He waits until Oscar looks up, really looks at him. “Don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Oscar blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “But you stopped,” he murmurs, voice small.

“Yeah,” Lando’s expression softens, but he doesn’t let go. “Not because I don’t want this. I do, I really do.” His voice is earnest, like he wants Oscar to believe him completely. “I just need to know what you want, Osc. I want this to be good for you,” Lando smiles softly. “So I need you to tell me what you want?”

The patience in his voice loosens something inside Oscar. “I…,” he starts. “I want… can you…” A noise of frustration escapes. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“It’s okay Osc,” Lando rubs his hands along Oscar’s sides reassuringly. “If you don’t want to do anything, that’s okay too.”

“No!” The firmness in his voice shocking him. “No I do. I want… I want you to make me feel good. Please.”

Lando nods, a quiet, certain movement, and presses a tender kiss to Oscar’s forehead. “Yeah. Yeah I’ve got you.”

He guides Oscar back against the cushions, movements slow and careful. One warm hand settling on Oscar’s waist while the other cups his jaw. Their mouths meet once more, slower this time, deeper. Oscar’s fingers curl into the fabric of Lando’s shirt, holding on as Lando kisses along his cheek, the corner of his mouth, down the line of his jaw. Every touch feels careful and reverent, like Lando is learning him by heart.

When Lando’s hands slide to Oscar’s hips, thumbs brushing over the waistband of his jeans. Oscar’s breath stutters, nerves and anticipations tangling together as Lando opens his jeans and eases them down. Cool air brushes Oscar’s skin and makes him shiver. When his cock is freed, Oscar freezes the second Lando’s gaze drops, heat rushes up his neck, into his cheeks, and he instinctively shifts, trying to hide himself.

Lando looks up at him immediately, brows knitting. “Hey,” he says gently. “What is it?”

Oscar cannot quite meet his eyes. He keeps staring at the couch, at his own hands, fingers fidgeting. “I’ve just… no one’s ever seen me like this before,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “It feels embarrassing.”

Lando moves closer without touching him yet, giving Oscar the space to breathe. “There’s nothing embarrassing about you,” he says quietly. “You look beautiful. All of you.”

Oscar lets out a shaky little laugh, finally glancing up and meeting Lando’s eyes. Whatever he sees there makes something in his chest soften. The embarrassment still lingers, but it no longer feels sharp. It feels held, gentled by the way Lando keeps looking at him like he is something precious rather than something to hide.

“Okay,” he breathes out.

“Yeah?” Lando smiles.

“Yeah.”

Lando’s moves, his hand finally wraps around him and the sensation is so real it almost steals his breath. Lando starts slow, his hand sliding upwards in a firm stroke, fingers pressing just enough to drag against the sensitive underside.

Oscar’s hips twitch, a low moan, a helpless, broken sound escapes his lips as Lando strokes him with steady care. Fingers move with quiet confidence, spreading warmth and slickness, drawing him higher with every pass.

“Like that?” Lando asks softly.

“Yes,” Oscar gasps, head tipping back, the pleasure blooming through him until it feels like he is made of nothing else.

Lando keeps watching him, reading every twitch and sound, adjusting just enough to make it better, stronger. Oscar’s thoughts dissolve into sensation, into the rhythm of Lando’s hand and the way tension coils tight in his gut.

Lando’s thumb brushes the ridge of the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum there. “Does that feel okay?” he asks, eyes locked on Oscar’s face, watching for any signs of discomfort. His free hand rests on Oscar’s thigh, squeezing reassuringly.

“Yeah,” Oscar nods frantically. “Don’t stop… feels… feels good.” The words tumble out, unfiltered, as Lando’s hand descends again, twisting gently at the base to heighten the friction.

Oscar feels everything tighten, the ache deepening with each stroke, his cock throbbing in Lando’s grasp. He can feel every callus on Lando’s fingers, every subtle shift in pressure, and it drives him mad, the way Lando experiments to find what Oscar likes, lightening his touch to tease the slit before gripping firmer, pulling a whine from Oscar’s throat.

Lando leans closer, his breath hot against Oscar’s neck as he murmurs. “You’re doing so well. Just breathe through it.”

He quickens his pace, hand gliding smoother now with the slickness gathering, the obscene sound of skin on skin mixing with Oscar’s ragged breathing. Oscar’s hands clutch at Lando’s shoulders, knuckles white, as pressure coils tighter in his core. Lando’s thumb circles the sensitive head, sending a jolt straight to Oscar’s toes, making his legs tremble.

“Lando,” Oscar breathes, fingers clutching at Lando’s shoulder. “I’m…”

The intensity builds relentlessly, Oscar’s mind fragments, lost in the rhythm. He glances down, mesmerised by the sight on Lando’s hand working him, tan on pale skin, veins standing out on his forearms from the effort. Lando’s own arousal evident from the straining of his jeans.

“I know Osc,” Lando murmurs, his voice strained with his own need. He presses a kiss to Oscar’s collarbone, than another to his jaw, grounding him amid the growing pressure. “I’ve got you. Come whenever you’re ready.”

Oscar’s hips buck up into the touch, chasing the edge, his moans turning into desperate pleas. The release crashes through Oscar without warning, his cock spasming in Lando’s fist as cum erupts in hot, thick spurts, splattering across his lower stomach and Lando’s knuckles. Waves of ecstasy pulse outward, toes curling, back arching off the couch as he rides it out. Lando works him through it with gentle squeezes, prolonging the bliss until Oscar slumps, spent and shuddering.

When Oscar eventually comes down from the high, Lando gently lets go of his softening cock, grabbing some tissues off the nearby side table to wipe Oscar down before tucking him back into his jeans.

“How are you?” Lando asks when he settles back down next to Oscar on the couch. His tone is soft, fingers automatically carding through Oscar’s hair.

Oscar nods, still catching his breath, a shy smile tugging at his lips. He feels floaty. “Yeah, I’m good. Really good.” Then hesitance creeps in as he meets Lando’s eyes. “Do you… can I… do you need me to… do the same to you?”

Lando chuckles warmly, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s temple. “No, you don’t need to. That was all about you.”

“Oh,” Oscar frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Positive Osc,” Lando nods. “I uh…”

It’s then that Oscar glances down and sees a dark wet patch spreading Lando’s jeans, evidence of his own release. Lando came just from touching him, from his own sounds and pleas. His cheeks flames hotter. “Oh, I didn’t mean to…”

Lando laughs outright, the sound bright and affectionate, pulling Oscar closer. “Hey, none of that. Take it as a compliment, yeah? I got off just from seeing you like that. Means you’re doing something right.” He winks, easing the embarrassment, and Oscar can’t help but laugh too, burying his face in Lando’s neck.

They stay like that as the movie rolls on unnoticed, tangled together on the couch. Oscar feels warm and safe in Lando’s arms, still glowing from everything that just happened. For his first time, it feels exactly right.

Chapter Text

The last few days of the trip fall into something dreamlike, all soft edges and golden light. Mornings come slow, the world still quiet as he wakes beside Lando, legs tangled together beneath thin sheets. Lando mumbling half-asleep things into his shoulder, words that melt away with the sunrise.

Oscar finds himself slipping into small habits, stealing bites from Lando’s plate, complaining when Lando nicks his sunglasses, pretending not to enjoy when it Lando tosses him his hoodie with a lazy grin and a “looks better on you anyway.”

On the last afternoon, the villa is quiet. The hum of cicadas outside blends with the soft crash of waves in the distance, the air heavy with late afternoon heat. Everyone else has scattered, Ryan and Matt by the pool, Keegan in his room on a business call, and Pietra and Ruby gone into town

Oscar’s in the kitchen with Max. Max is fixing himself another drink whilst Oscar stands by the counter, absently slicing fruit he doesn’t even want. Instead he’s half listening to the sound of Lando’s voice outside. Through the open doors, he can see him, barefoot again, phone pressed to his ear, pacing across the patio as the sun hits him just right. The loose linen shirt, the messy curls, the easy charm in his laugh. Oscar’s not sure who he’s talking to, but it must be about something light as all Oscar can hear is the smooth roll of his tone, the warmth that fills the space just by existing.

He’s staring, and he knows it, but he can’t help it.

“You’re going to burn a hole through him if you keep looking at him like that,” Max says suddenly, and Oscar jumps, nearly slicing his thumb.

“Jesus,” he mutters, turning sharply. Max is leaning against the counter next to him, a glass of whatever he’d concocted up in his hands, one eyebrow raised.

“I said you’re staring,” Max repeats, grinning. “Though, fair. He’s a good view.”

Oscar scowls, his pulse quick. “I wasn’t staring.”

Max chuckles. “Mate, you were staring so hard I’m surprised the glass hasn’t fogged.”

Oscar looks back at the fruit, forcing nonchalance. “I was just zoning out.”

“Right,” Max drawls, clearly unconvinced. He takes a sip, still watching him. “So… How’re you going with all this?”

Oscar freezes. “All what?”

Max gestures vaguely toward the patio, at where Lando is laughing into his phone. “You know. The whole thing. The two of you.”

Oscar’s heart skips. “We’re fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. I’m just…” Max shrugs, tone softening. “This is new for you, yeah? Figured it’s a lot to take in.”

Something prickles in Oscar’s chest. He sets the knife down a bit too hard. “What do you mean new for me?”

Max blinks. “I mean, I know it’s…”

“You know?” Oscar cuts in, heat rising under his skin. “Because Lando told you?”

Max looks startled. “What? No, I…”

“Has he been talking about me?” Oscar presses, his voice sharper now, words spilling out before he can stop them. “Has he been telling people I’ve never..?” His throat closes around the rest, humiliation biting at the edges of his words. “That I’ve never done anything?”

Max’s eyes widen. “No! No, Christ, Oscar.” He sets the bottle down quickly, hands raised in defence. “It’s not like that. Lando hasn’t said anything like that.”

Oscar’s pulse hammers, his chest tight. “You said it’s new for me. If that’s not what you mean than what has Lando been saying?”

“I meant,” Max says firmly, his voice calm now, “Looks it’s so obvious to anyone who knows Lando that he really cares about you, and he doesn’t want to push you. That’s it. That’s all he’s said. He’s been asking me how to make sure he’s not rushing you into anything because he doesn’t want to screw this up.”

Oscar’s breath falters. The room feels too warm.

Max sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve known Lando a long time. He’s not careless. If anything, he overthinks. You should’ve seen him the night before you got here, pacing around, triple checking everything, making sure we had your favourite drinks and snacks on the grocery list.”

Oscar tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it’s hard. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Max says softly. “He’s a goner, mate. You don’t have to worry about him telling anyone anything. The only thing he’s said is that you make him happy.”

Before Oscar can find something to say, the glass door slides open. Lando steps inside, sunlight still clinging to him. His hair is mussed, shirt sticking slightly to his skin from the humidity. The easy smile on his face falters when he catches the tension in the air.

“What’s going on?” he asks, looking between them.

“We’re all good mate,” Max says quickly, grabbing his drink again. “But I’ll leave you two to it.” He glances at Lando, then at Oscar, and mutters, “Good luck,” before slipping outside.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Lando glances at Oscar, frowning. “You okay?”

Oscar exhales, trying to steady his voice. “Were you talking to Max about me?”

Lando blinks, caught off guard. “What? Uh… yeah, I mean, a bit. Not… what’s this about?”

Oscar swallows hard. “Have you been telling him about… us? About me?”

Lando’s eyebrows knit. “I mean… he knows you’re my boyfriend. And I’ve asked him for advice. Why?”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. “Did you tell him I’ve never…” He can’t even finish the sentence. His ears are burning. “That I haven’t… you know.”

Lando’s eyes widen. “No! God, no. I’d never say that.”

“Then what?” Oscar asks, voice rising, anger covering the embarrassment building in his throat. “He knew that this is all new to me, so what are you talking about with him?”

Lando sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring on his face. “I just… I needed someone to talk to after I kissed you the first time. I was feeling a lot of guilt over it, which I know now that I didn’t need to but at the time I needed Max to help me make sense of everything swirling in my head.” Lando takes a breath before continuing. “So he knows that this is your first relationship. He doesn’t know anything about our sexual life Osc.”

Oscar blushes at that causing Lando to smile.

“So yeah I talk to him about us sometimes. Because I don’t want to mess this up. I’ve never dated someone like you, and I don’t want to be the guy who pushes too hard or says the wrong thing.”

Oscar stares at him, the anger softening into something uncertain. “So you’re not embarrassed? That I don’t know what I’m doing half the time?”

Lando steps closer, his expression softening immediately. “No. I’m not embarrassed. Jesus, Oscar.” He hesitates, his voice gentler now. “You think I’d be here if I was?”

Oscar’s chest tightens, he looks down, his voice small. “I just… I don’t want to feel like some story you’re telling your friends.”

Lando’s eyes soften further. “You’re not a story,” he says firmly. “You’re it, Oscar. I talk to Max because I care. Because I want to get this right. And if I ever cross a line or make you uncomfortable, you can tell me. I want you to tell me, always.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. “I know. I just…” He sighs, cheeks flushed with the weight of it all. “I keep overthinking. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Lando says, stepping close enough to touch. “You’re allowed to overthink. You’re figuring this out. We both are.”

Oscar finally looks up, meeting his eyes, the sincerity there hits him harder than he expects.

Lando reaches out, brushing his thumb over Oscar’s hand before threading their fingers together. “Just promise me you’ll talk to me when you feel like this, yeah? Don’t keep it in.”

Oscar nods, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Lando smiles, small, relieved, and tugs him into a hug. Oscar melts into it, his face pressing into Lando’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him.

“You’re not too young for me,” Lando murmurs against his hair. “You’re not inexperienced, you’re not anything that needs fixing. You’re just… you. And that’s who I want.”

Oscar exhales shakily, a laugh caught somewhere in his chest. “You really need to stop saying things like that.”

“Why?” Lando pulls back enough to grin down at him. “Because they make you blush?”

Oscar tries to glare, but his lips betray him with the smallest smile. “Maybe.”

Lando leans in, presses a soft kiss to his temple. “Good.”

The tension between them finally fades, replaced with that same quiet steadiness Oscar’s come to crave, the feeling of being known, not as the reserve driver, not as the kid from Alpine, but as someone Lando simply chooses.

…

Dinner was a quiet affair as everyone tries to ignore the fact that they’re back to reality in the morning. Everyone’s makes their way to their rooms afterwards to pack and prepare for the early wake up call. Oscar’s sitting cross legged on the bed, folding his clothes into neat piles that are quickly undone by Lando dumping his pile onto the bed.

“You know,” Lando says, holding up one of Oscar’s shirts that had somehow mixed in with his. “You’ve somehow managed to wear half of my wardrobe this trip.”

Oscar looks up, smiling faintly. “That’s because you keep giving me your clothes.”

“Yeah, well, you look better in them,” Lando says casually, like it’s nothing. His tone is light, but his eyes flick up to Oscar’s and lingers just a second too long.

The sound of waves drifts faintly through the open window, the night air warm and heavy. Oscar’s folding a hoodie that clearly belongs to Lando, while Lando leans against the dresser, watching him.

“We should talk about… when we’re back,” Lando says finally, quiet but certain.

Oscar looks up, mind automatically going to worse case scenarios. “What do you mean?” His voice is laced with panic which Lando’s notices.

“Hey no,” he says, coming to join Oscar on the bed. “It’s nothing bad. I just mean we should talk about how we’re going to do this when the season starts up again. How much we want to share with others and what we want to keep to ourselves. The paddock isn’t exactly subtle, and I don’t want things getting messy for you. For either of us.”

Oscar hums, setting the hoodie aside. “You’re right. We should figure it out before we’re suddenly surrounded by cameras again.”

Lando reaches out to lace his fingers through Oscar’s. “So… what do you want?”

Oscar takes a moment, thinking. “I want this,” he says softly, gesturing between them. “And I don’t want it to be something we hide because we’re scared. But I also don’t want this to become a big spectacle and ruin both of our careers.”

Lando nods slowly. “Same. I want to tell the people who matter. My family. My friends. But the rest of the world…” He sighs. “The world can wait.”

Oscar’s shoulders ease a little. “Yeah. I think I’d like that. I don’t want to lie to the people I love if they ask, but I don’t want to make it some huge announcement either.”

“Exactly,” Lando says. “It doesn’t need to be a statement. It just… is.”

They sit quietly for a moment, the hum of the night filling the space between them.

“I’m not ready for everyone to know,” Oscar admits after a pause. “I just want to be able to figure this out without headlines or questions.”

Lando smiles faintly. “You don’t have to explain that. We’ll take it slow. We tell the people we trust, and the rest stays between us. When we’re both ready, we’ll deal with everything else.”

Oscar studies him. “You sure you’re okay with that? You’ve always been in the spotlight. People are going to notice things. The media’s always going to try and find out stuff about your personal life more than mine.”

“I know,” Lando says, a small smile forming. “They can make their guesses, I just won’t confirm anything. Besides,” he adds, softer now, “I’d rather protect what we have than put it on display. You’re worth it Osc.”

That quiet sincerity sinks deep in Oscar’s chest. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll tell your family, mine, the close friends. But the rest stays private.”

“Deal,” Lando says, holding out his pinky.

Oscar laughs but hooks his finger around Lando’s anyway. “Deal.”

Oscar, feeling a sudden surge of confidence, leans forward, cupping Lando's face and drawing him into a kiss. It's soft, less urgent but no less deep. Lando's lips part willingly, his hands settling on Oscar's waist as their mouths move together, tongues brushing lazily. Oscar sighs into it, the taste of toothpaste mingling with the faint salt from earlier. They linger like that for a moment, foreheads touching when they break apart, breaths syncing in the quiet space.

Lando gives him a small smile as he shifts away from the bed, the moment easing into something quieter as he reaches for the drawer and pulls out his pyjama bottoms. Lando reaches for the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head, Oscar watching as the familiar lines of his body come into view. When Lando steps out of his jeans and stands there in just his boxers, Oscar’s breath catches anyway, heat blooming low in his stomach. The sight settles something strange and steady in his chest, a spark of boldness nudging past nerves.

“Hey,” Oscar says before he can overthink it, voice soft but sure enough.

Lando looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Oscar swallows, fingers twisting into the bedsheets, then forcing them still. His cheeks warm but he holds Lando’s gaze. “Can I ask you something?”

Lando’s expression shifts immediately, attentive. He sets his pyjamas aside and turns fully back to him. “Of course.”

There is a brief pause as Oscar gathers himself, then the words come out in a rush. “Could you… could you show me? Like, teach me how to do what you did the other night? I want… I want to be able to make you feel good to. I just… I don’t know how. I mean obviously I’ve done it to myself but… just not someone else.” Oscar finishes, heart thudding as he braces himself for Lando’s response.

Lando pauses, surprise flickering across his face before it melts into a soft smile. He straightens, stepping closer, his eyes searching Oscar's for any hint of doubt. "Are you sure? We don't have to rush anything.”

Oscar nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Then yeah, if that's what you want, I'd love that." His tone is encouraging, no pressure, just genuine enthusiasm. “But we take it slow. And if you want to stop, you tell me and we will.”

Oscar nods, confidence settling properly now, fragile but real. He shifts closer to Lando, nerves still humming under his skin, but this time they feel like excitement rather than fear.

Lando climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under their weight, and pulls Oscar towards him. Their mouths find each other easily this time, no hesitation, just soft familiarity layered over everything new. Lando kisses him slow and deep, one hand settling at Oscar’s waist, grounding him there.

Oscar melts into it, confidence blooming with every second Lando stays close. His fingers slide up Lando’s chest, tentative at first, then a little braver, feeling the bumps and grooves of Lando’s pectoral and abdominal muscles. Lando hums quietly into the kiss, approval vibrating through Oscar’s lips, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

They break apart only long enough to breathe.

“You’re doing great,” Lando murmurs, voice low and encouraging.

Oscar lets out a breathy laugh, cheeks warm. “I feel like I’m winging it.”

“That’s alright,” Lando says, kissing him again, slower now. His hand drifts down Oscar’s arm, fingers lacing with his, guiding rather than leading. “You can take your time.”

Oscar nods, heart thudding. The kiss deepens once more, unhurried, mouths moving together in sync. When Lando finally pulls back a second time, his thumb brushes lightly over Oscar’s knuckles, a silent question.

“If you want,” Lando says gently, eyes steady on Oscar’s face. “You can take my boxers off.”

The words settle between them, warm rather than demanding. Oscar swallows, then nods, courage flickering bright in his chest as he leans in to steal one more kiss before his hands move down to Lando’s hips, ready to take that next step with Lando watching him like he’s doing everything right.

Oscar’s hands tremble only slightly as he hooks his fingers into the waistband and eases Lando’s boxers down, eyes flicking up once more for reassurance before he commits. When he sees Lando’s reassuring smile and the look in his eyes, he looks back down and pulls them all the way down.

Oscar’s eyes drop to Lando’s cock without meaning to, curiosity pulling his attention downward before his nerves can stop it. The sight hits him all at once and he sucks in a sharp breath, panic flaring bright and sudden in his chest.

“Oh,” he blurts, then immediately clamps his mouth shut, mortified. His face feels like it is on fire. He looks away just as quickly, hands flying up to cover his face like that might make everything better. “Sorry, sorry. I just… I wasn’t…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lando’s hands are around Oscar’s, easing them down slowly so Oscar can see his face, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah, it’s just…” Oscar risks another glance, then freezes again, nerves sparking straight through him. It’s a lot, more than he ever imagines, solid and real and undeniably there. His stomach flips, part awe, part sheep intimidation. “It’s just… wow.”

Lando arches a brow, half amused, half uncertain. “Good wow, or like panic wow?”

Oscar huffs out a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Both.” He swallows, honesty tumbling out before he can stop it. “I thought I knew what to expect, but that’s… better than I imagined.” He winces, embarrassed. “Which is now making me freak out because what if I’m terrible at this?”

Lando still, expression softening immediately. “Osc.”

Oscar keeps talking, words rushing. “This is my first time doing this, which obviously you knew that, and now you look like that, and all I can think about is how I’m going to be useless at this and won’t able to make you feel good, and you’ll regret it.”

Lando reaches for him, cupping his face with his hand, thumb brushing warm reassurance along Oscar’s cheekbone. “Hey. Look at me.”

Oscar hesitates but lifts his eyes.

“There’s no test,” Lando says gently. “You don’t have to perform. I’m not expecting anything except you being here with me.”

Oscar’s shoulders sag a little, tension easing though the nerves still buzz under his skin. “You’re not… disappointed then?” He asks. “That I’ve never done this?”

“God no and I will keep telling you that every time you’re brain makes you think that I am,” Lando smiles, soft and fond. “Honestly Osc, I’m more turned on by how much you care about this being good for me than anything else right now.”

That makes Oscar laugh, breathless and disbelieving. He glances down at Lando’s cock once more, still wide eyes but less panicked now. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I just… might need a bit of help.”

Lando squeezes his knee. “I can do that.”

Oscar nods, nerves still fluttering, but something steadier settles beneath them, trust curling warm in his chest as he leans back into Lando’s space. Oscar shifts closer, kneeling between Lando's thighs, his pulse thundering in his ears. Lando reaches down first, wrapping his own hand around his shaft in a loose grip, demonstrating with a few deliberate strokes. "See? Start at the base like this, firm but not too tight."

Oscar watches intently, then reaches out, his fingers tentative as they encircle the base alongside Lando's hand. The heat radiates into his palm, the subtle pulse quickening under his touch. Lando's length fills his grip, solid and alive, and he squeezes experimentally, earning a soft hiss from Lando.

"Good, just like that," Lando encourages, his voice husky. He covers Oscar's hand fully now, guiding it upward in a smooth slide. "Now up to the head, twist your wrist a bit here. God yeah, just like that.” Oscar feels himself smile at the moan that escapes Lando’s mouth.

Oscar follows the motion, feeling Lando's fingers pressing his own into the right pressure, the skin gliding warmer with each pass. Pre-cum beads at the tip, slicking their joined hands, and Lando groans low in his throat.

"Fuck, Osc, you're getting it. Keep that rhythm, up and down, steady. But reckon you can pick up the speed a bit now." He adjusts their pace, his hand directing Oscar's to pump a little faster, the wet sounds starting to fill the room as friction builds.

Emboldened by Lando's active guidance, Oscar takes more control, but Lando stays involved, his free hand resting on Oscar's thigh for balance. "Try squeezing at the base now, then loosen up toward the top. And use your thumb on the underside, press there while you stroke." Oscar experiments, thumb rubbing the sensitive vein, and Lando's hips twitch upward, breath hitching. "Yes, exactly. It feels amazing Osc."

Lando shifts his grip slightly, demonstrating a firmer twist at the head before letting Oscar mimic it alone. Oscar does, spreading the moisture, his hand moving smoother now, the glide easier and more insistent. Lando's chest rises and falls quicker, eyes locked on Oscar's face with raw appreciation.

Lando bucks lightly into his fist. "God don’t stop." Their hands work in tandem at first, Lando's overlapping Oscar's to fine-tune the strokes, then pulling back completely to let Oscar lead. "Yeah, fuck, just like that. You're a natural."

The room echoes with Lando's deepening moans, his cock jerking in Oscar's grip, veins pulsing hotly. Sweat beads on Lando's skin, and he threads fingers through Oscar's hair, not pulling but anchoring.

"I'm getting close, Osc. Keep going, squeeze the base when I say." Oscar's arm burns a little from the effort, but the sight of Lando unravelling, lips parted, eyes fluttering, fuels him. Lando's hand returns briefly, squeezing Oscar's over his own shaft to show the final rhythm, fast and tight. "Now, harder!"

Lando comes with a guttural moan, cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spill over Oscar's knuckles, hot and sticky, some splattering onto Lando's stomach. His body tenses, hips grinding up into the slowing strokes, riding the waves until he's spent, slumping back with a shaky exhale. Oscar eases his grip, staring at the mess on his hand, a mix of awe and pride swelling in his chest.

Lando pulls him down for a messy kiss, tasting of salt and gratitude. "That was brilliant," he pants against Oscar's lips. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Oscar whispers, grinning shyly. “That was fun.”

Lando laughs as he gets up and heads into the bathroom to get a towel so he can wipe himself and Oscar’s hands off. When he comes back to bed, he crawls between Oscar’s legs. “Want me to take care of you now?”

Its only then that Oscar realises how achingly hard he is, straining against his jeans. “Yeah,” Oscar nods. “Yes please.”

Lando’s smiles as he reaches to pull Oscar free of his jeans. He leans in and presses a trail of kisses up the inside of Oscar’s thigh.

Oscar gasps at the sensations. “What are you…?”

“Can I blow you Oscar?” Lando asks, eyes looking up to meet Oscar’s. “We don’t have to, but I’d really like to.”

Oscar all but moans at the sight of Lando looking up at him between his legs. “Yes, yes.”

Lando grins and wastes no time, licking a long, deliberate stripe from the base to the tip, savouring the shiver it draws from Oscar's body, the way his hips twitch upward on instinct.

“Tastes amazing already,” Lando murmurs against the heated skin, breath hot, before engulfing the head in one smooth motion, sucking deep and immediate, throat opening effortlessly to take him down fully. The wet heat is overwhelming, a velvet vice that makes Oscar's vision blur at the edges. Oscar already knowing he won’t last long.

Lando's tongue works intricate swirls along the underside of the shaft as he bobs with expert rhythm, cheeks hollowed for tight, unrelenting suction. One hand cups Oscar's balls, rolling them lightly in his palm, tugging just enough to heighten the building pressure without pain, fingers pressing behind to tease the sensitive spots.

Oscar gasps sharply, fingers tangling desperately in Lando's curls, hips bucking involuntarily as pleasure coils sharp and fast in his core, unlike anything he's felt before. Lando hums around the length, the vibrations shooting straight through Oscar like electricity, pulling off only briefly to tease the slit with quick, precise flicks of his tongue, a smirk on his face, before diving back down, nose brushing against Oscar's pubic bone as he takes him to the hilt.

“Oh god, Lan… Lando, I’m gonna…” Oscar tries.

“I know Osc, let go,” Lando urges on an upstroke, words muffled and rough, lips brushing the slick skin before he seals tight again, sucking relentlessly, head twisting slightly to add friction.

The room fills with the wet sounds of his mouth working, Oscar's ragged moans, the creak of the bed as his body arches. It builds too fast, the tension snapping like a taut wire, Oscar shattering with a cry, back arching off the mattress as cum pulses hot and thick into Lando's mouth. Lando swallows greedily around him, throat contracting in rhythmic pulls that milk every last spurt, tongue lapping softly to prolong the waves until Oscar slumps back, trembling, limbs heavy and boneless.

Lando doesn't pull away until he's sure Oscar's done, releasing him with a final, gentle suck that makes Oscar whimper from oversensitivity. He crawls up the bed slowly, wrapping Oscar in a close, enveloping embrace, their sweat slicked bodies pressing together.

His lips brush Oscar's temple softly, then his forehead. “You good?” Lando whispers, voice husky with satisfaction and affection, one hand stroking lazy patterns down Oscar's back.

“Yeah, really good,” Oscar curls into him, nodding against the steady rise and fall of Lando's chest, the heartbeat lulling him into a hazy contentment.

…

Four days later, Oscar finds himself sitting in the arrivals lane at Heathrow, thumb tapping on the steering wheel, watching the steady line of passengers spill through the sliding doors. He spots her as soon as she exits the building, Hattie, hair wild from travel, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder and a grin that hasn’t changed since she was little.

She barrels toward his car with a squeal. “You’re meant to get out and hug me, idiot!”

Oscar laughs, climbing out to catch her as she throws her arms around him. “It’s good to see you Hatts.”

“You too.” She squeezes tight before pulling back to inspect him. “You look good, happier.”

He clears his throat, deflecting. “You look like you’ve been living out of a tent.”

“Correct,” she says brightly, dumping her bag into the boot. “Bali, Thailand, a bit of Cambodia, I’m basically feral. Wait till you hear about the monkeys.”

By the time they reach his apartment, Hattie’s voice fills every quiet corner. She talks about hostels and strangers, sunrise hikes and terrifying bus rides, her hands animated as she raids his fridge. Oscar listens, smiling in all the right places, genuinely proud of her. But his phone buzzes on the counter, and without thinking, he glances down.

‘Made it through the sponsor dinner without dying. Barely. Save me tomorrow?’

Lando. A small smile curls at his lips before he can stop it. He types back quickly, ‘Depends what’s in it for me’, and sets the phone down, but not fast enough.

Hattie leans on the bench, narrowing her eyes. “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

“No one.”

“Uh huh.” She plucks an apple from the fruit bowl, biting into it loudly. “I’ve never seen anyone make you smile like that. Ever.”

“I’m smiling normally. I’m not…” He stops when his phone buzzes again.

“Busted Oscar,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Who are you texting?”

“No one.”

“You liar,” she says, pointing at him with half her eaten apple.

Oscar rolls his eyes, trying to look casual. “It’s just a friend.”

“A friend?” Her tone drips with mischief. “Since when do you smile like that over a friend?”

“Since forever,” he mutters, failing miserably.

She drops onto the couch beside him, legs tucked under her. “You know, if I to guess, I’d say someone sent you a flirty text. That’s what has got that smile out of you.”

“It’s not.”

“Sure,” she says, snickering. “So if I read your messages, there’d be nothing remotely flirty?”

Oscar shoots her a glare. “You’re not reading my messages.”

“Which means there is something flirty.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when you’re this easy to mess with,” she says, stealing another biscuit. “At least tell me if it’s someone I know.”

He hesitates, too long, apparently, because her grin widens. “You hesitated! Oh my god, it’s totally someone I’d know!”

Oscar stands abruptly, grabbing his empty mug just to have something to do. “I’m making tea.”

She follows him back into the kitchen, relentless. “Is it someone from F1?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrow. “You paused again. You’re the worst liar on the planet, you know that?”

Oscar sighs. “Drop it, Hattie.”

She leans against the counter, amused. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. But just so know, you’re blushing.”

“I’m hot,” he says quickly, turning away. “It’s hot in here.”

“Right.” She grins. “If you need relationship advice, by the way, I’m worldly now. Very experienced in romance.”

“You dated a backpacker named Eli for six weeks.”

“Exactly,” she says smugly. “Basically married.”

Oscar can’t help laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your sister,” she says, bumping his shoulder with hers. “You have to love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately.”

Later, when Hattie’s asleep in the spare room, jet lag having caught up with her, Oscar lies awake staring at his ceiling. His phone buzzes again.

‘You’re hoodie ended up in my suitcase btw. You’re not getting it back.’ Followed by a selfie of Lando smiling his wide, cheesy grin, wearing his hoodie with the hood up.

Oscar’s chest warms. ‘And I wonder how it got in there.’

‘No idea. Must have crawled in itself.’

Oscar’s grin is helpless this time. He doesn’t bother replying, he just stares at the message, the corners of his mouth twitching. Hattie was right, he is smiling differently. He just can’t seem to stop.

…

The morning starts slow, sunlight spilling across the living room floor in long golden stripes. Oscar’s half dozing on the couch, scrolling through the news without really reading it, while Hattie lounges upside down beside him with her feet hanging over the backrest, humming along to some tune playing from her phone. It’s peaceful, comfortable, familiar in a way he’s missed.

Hattie stretches, groaning dramatically. “I might never move again. Do you know how many flights I’ve taken in the last month?”

“Spoilt,” Oscar smirks, voice lazy. “So, what are your plans for whilst you’re here?”

“Going to catch up with a few friends I made in Asia, see all the usual touristy sights, and of course spend time with the best big brother ever.”

“Ha ha,” Oscar responds dramatically. “I am glad you’re here Hatts.”

“Me too,” she smiles.

They lapse back into silence, the kind that’s easy, that only siblings can manage. Then Oscar’s phone starts to ring, vibrating against the coffee table. He glances over.

Mark Webber.

His stomach tightens, a flicker of nerves shooting through him. “Give me a sec,” he says, sitting up and answering. “Hey, Mark.”

“Morning, mate.” Mark’s tone is calm, but there’s an undercurrent to it, something bright, humming beneath the surface. “How are you going?”

“Good,” Oscar says cautiously. “Hattie’s here visiting for the week.”

“Hey, that’s great. Tell her I say hi.”

Oscar pulls phone away slightly and turns his attention to Hattie, “Mark says hi.”

Hattie lights up at that, “tell him I say hi back.”

“She says hi back,” Oscar says into his phone.

Mark laughs. “Have you got a minute?”

Oscar sits up straighter. “Yeah, what’s up?”

There is a brief pause on the line, not awkward, just deliberate. Oscar knows Mark well enough now to recognise it. This is one of those calls.

“I had a conversation last night,” Mark sats. “Actually, a couple of conversations.”

“Okay.” Oscar notices Hattie has stopped scrolling on her phone and was now paying attention to him.

“A team’s reached out,” Mark says.

It takes Oscar a moment to process the words. “A team?” His fingers tighten around the phone.

“Mm,” Mark hums. “They said they’ve been watching you for a while. They like what they’ve been seeing, your feedback, your work ethic.”

Oscar lets out a slow breath. “Is this… real? Or one of those ‘keep him warm’ chats?”

“It’s real,” Mark replies, Oscar can almost hear the smile in his voice. “They asked about you’re availability for next season and whether you’d be open to meeting to have a proper conversation.”

Oscar stares at the wall, pulse loud in his ears. “Jesus.”

“I know,” Mark replies. “Just be mindful that this isn’t an offer yet, it’s just interest. But if we play our cards right, that interest could turn into opportunity.”

Oscar nods even though Mark cannot see him. “Yeah… yeah okay.”

“They want to meet with us both tomorrow,” Mark explains. “So I’ll come by and pick you about nine am.”

Oscar’s breath catches. Tomorrow. “Okay. This is… this is good right?”

“Yes Oscar, this is good,” he can hear Mark laugh lightly.

“Okay.”

There is another pause, softer this time. “How are you feeling about it?” Mark asks. “Not as a driver. As  a person.”

“Excited,” he admits. “Terrified. Kind of both tangled together.”

“That is normal,” Mark says. “If you were not scared, I would be worried.”

Oscar exhales, tension easing just a fraction. “You really think this could be something?”

“I would not have entertained the call if I didn’t Oscar.” Mark replies. “You have earned the interest. Now we just have to see where it leads.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thanks Mark,” he says quietly. “For everything.”

“Always,” Mark says. “I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

“Okay, bye.”

The call ends, and for a few seconds, Oscar just sits there, phone still in his hand, staring at nothing.

Hattie leans over, wide eyed. “What was that? It sounded good. But you look like you’ve seen a ghost so…”

He exhales shakily. “Mark. He… he said a team’s reached out. They want to meet with me tomorrow.”

Hattie freezes. “You’re serious?”

He nods, still dazed.

“Oh my god!” she shrieks, nearly knocking over her mug of tea as she jumps up. “Oscar! That’s amazing!”

She pulls him into a hug that nearly knocks the air out of him, squealing into his shoulder. He laughs breathlessly, still half in disbelief. “It’s just a meeting.”

“It’s not just a meeting!” she says, gripping his shoulders. “You’ve been waiting for this forever. Finally, someone’s realised you’re brilliant.”

Oscar feels his cheeks heat, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere nervous and disbelieving. “Maybe,” he says.

“Not maybe.” She grins. “You’re going to get that seat, Oscar. I can feel it.”

Her excitement is infectious, washing away some of his shock. He can’t stop smiling as she chatters about calling their parents, but he shakes his head. “No, don’t. Not yet. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Wait, what team?”

The realisation lands heavy and stupid in his chest. He lets out a quiet groan and tips his head back against the wall. “I didn’t ask,” he mutters. “Idiot.” He grabs his phone and sends a quick text to Mark asking. “Guess I was too caught up that this might actually be happening.”

“It’s okay Oscar,” Hattie says. “No team can be worse than Alpine.”

Oscar snorts. “Yeah.”

“But you have to tell me everything the moment you know.”

He promises, and for the rest of the morning she keeps sneaking glances at him, still beaming.

Later, when Hattie’s getting ready to meet up with some friends she met travelling, Oscar pulls out his phone to message Lando. His hands still tremble a little as he types. ‘You free tonight? Hattie’s going out. I’ve got news.’

‘Good or bad?’ Lando’s response comes through immediately.

‘Good. Really good.’

‘Then yeah. FaceTime later?’

‘Yeah. 7 okay?’

‘See you then. Can’t wait to hear it.’

Oscar smiles, slipping his phone into his pocket. The anticipation swirls in his chest, equal parts nerves and warmth.

So when his doorbell rings just before seven that evening, he isn’t expecting it.

He opens the door to find Lando standing there in a hoodie and cap, the brim casting a shadow over his grin. “FaceTime’s boring,” Lando says, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Thought I’d come in person.”

Oscar blinks. “You’re supposed to be in Monaco.”

“Got summoned back to MTC last minute, was going to surprise you tomorrow.” Lando’s grin widens. “So, are you going to tell me the news or leave me hanging?”

Oscar steps back to let him in, still grinning in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you. Now spill.”

“Mark called,” Oscar says, still trying to wrap his head around it. “A team wants to talk to me. I’m meeting them tomorrow.”

For a moment, Lando just stares. Then he breaks into a bright, disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding, really?”

Oscar nods.

“See?” Lando says, grabbing Oscar by the shoulders, eyes shining. “I told you this would happen. Finally, someone with brains. You’ve been killing yourself for months, and now it’s paying off.”

Before Oscar can say anything, Lando sweeps him into a hug, tight, solid, warm. Then he actually lifts him clean off the ground and spins him, laughing.

“Lando!” Oscar gasps, clutching his shoulders. “Put me down!”

“Never!” Lando cackles, spinning him once more before finally setting him back on his feet. “God, you deserve this so much.”

Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lando says, still grinning. “You did it.”

“I do have to thank you though,” Oscar says. “You spent so much of your time helping me, especially when you’ve got your own championship battle going on at the same time. So thank you for always backing me when I ready to give up. And for listening when I spiralled.”

Lando looks a little overwhelmed by that, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I just… I wanted you to know I believe in you,” he says. “Always will.”

They stand there for a moment, the weight of it settling between them.

“So,” Lando says finally, trying for light. “Which team?”

Oscar opens his mouth, then freezes. “Oh.”

Lando watches his face change. “Oh what?”

Oscar grimaces. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t ask,” Lando repeats.

“I forgot,” Oscar says mortified. “I was too busy freaking out internally.”

Lando snorts, shaking his head. “Classic.”

“I texted Mark asking,” Oscar says, already pulling his phone out. He unlocks it but frowns when he realises there’s still not response from Mark. “He hasn’t texted back.”

Lando leans over his shoulder to look, then straightens. “He will. Mark loves a dramatic pause.”

“Sure you’re not confusing him with you,” Oscar smirks.

“Oh he’s got jokes.” Lando bumps his shoulder playfully. “But seriously Osc, whatever team it is, they’re lucky to get you. And I mean that.”

Oscar looks at him, nerves and excitement tangling together in his chest, “Yeah,” he says softly. “I hope so.”

“Actually, there’s something else I wanted to ask you,” Lando bites his lip, nerves written all over his face.

Oscar tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got this family dinner thing the Saturday before Azerbaijan. Something Mum always does before the flyaway part of the season starts again. You should...” He pauses. “Would you want to come with me?”

Oscar’s brows lift. “Your family dinner?”

“Yeah,” Lando says casually, but there’s a flicker of nerves underneath his tone. “Mum will cook too much food, Dad will talk too long, but I want you there. I want them to meet you.”

Oscar hesitates. “Are you sure?”

Lando smiles softly. “Of course. I want them to like you as much as I do.”

That knocks the air out of Oscar for a moment. He looks down, trying not to blush. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” Lando’s grin returns, wider now. “It’s a date, then.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s lips. Oscar’s hand fist the front of Lando’s hoodie, pulling him closer, and Lando responds immediately, mouth opening, backing Oscar up against the kitchen counter without even thinking about it. This kiss turns hungry fast, breath shared, bodies pressed close, everything loud and bright and urgent in the small kitchen.

Lando’s hand slides down to Oscar’s side, pushing the hem of his shirt upwards, his hand gripping the curve of his waist. His thumb digging in like he needs the contact with Oscar’s skin to ground himself. Oscar makes a soft, breathless sound into his mouth, heart racing, confidence surging with the way Lando kisses him back like this is not a question anymore.

Both are so lost in the kiss and each other that neither hears the front door open until it’s too late.

“Okay, so I forgot my charger and if it’s not exactly where I left it, I am blaming you for touching my stuff… oh my god!”

Oscar pulls back from Lando sharply, eyes wide, face going crimson.

Hattie stands in the doorway, one brow arched and a grin slowly spreading across her face before she starts laughing so hard she can barely talk. “I knew it! I totally knew you were seeing someone.”

Oscar’s face is on fire. “Can you not…”

“And I totally thought it would be you too,” she continues, now looking at Lando.

Oscar groans, burying his face in his hands. “I am going to die.”

“No you’re not,” Hattie says cheerfully. “You are going to survive this and then I am going to tease you about it forever.”

Lando laughs, helpless and a little flushed, glancing at Oscar with something soft in his eyes. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

Oscar peaks out from between his fingers, mortified but smiling despite himself. “Not your fault.”

Hattie fake gags. “Urgh, you two are already sickeningly cute.”

“Hattie,” Oscar warns.

She waves him off, still giggling. “Relax! I’m happy for you. I told you yesterday you looked happier,” she gestures between them “and now I know why. It’s nice.” She turns to Lando and reaches her hand out toward him. “Hi, I’m Hattie. Oscar’s eldest, youngest sister.”

Lando’s smiled, cheeks still a bit pink. “Hi, I’m Lando.”

Hattie beams. “Nice to meet you. So you’re the reason my brother’s been grinning like an idiot.”

“Hattie!”

“What? It’s true.” She turns back to Lando, tone mock serious. “You seem great, but just so you know, if you hurt him, you’ll have three little sisters hunting you down.”

Lando grins. “Noted. I don’t plan on it.”

She studies him a second longer, then nods approvingly. “Good answer.”

Oscar groans. “I hate this.”

“No, you don’t,” she says, smirking.

He mutters something unintelligible, and Lando laughs softly beside him. “I should probably go before this gets worse,” he says, still smiling.

“Probably a good idea,” Oscar agrees.

“Call me after your meeting tomorrow?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah, will do.”

When the door shuts behind Lando, Hattie drops dramatically onto the couch. “You know Mum’s going to freak out, right? And probably not in a good way at first.”

Oscar sighs, cheeks still burning. “I know. Just… don’t tell her yet, okay? I want… I need to do it myself.”

Hattie holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. My lips are sealed. For now.” She pauses, smiling softly. “I really am happy for you, Oscar.”

He glances toward the door, a quiet smile playing on his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Oscar’s up the next morning well before his alarm, mind buzzing, the knot of anticipation in his chest tightening with every passing minute. When Hattie wakes almost an hour later, he’s dressed neatly but can’t seem to keep still, checking his reflection, adjusting his collar, then sitting, then standing again. Hattie, still in her pyjamas and hair tied up in a lopsided bun, just rolls her eyes at his behaviour and starts making them both breakfast.

Oscar sits at the breakfast bench, staring at the fruit bowl in front of him like it might give him some divine answer.

“Dude, you’re going to burn a hole through the counter with that stare,” Hattie says, licking the excess butter and vegemite off the knife.

Oscar blinks, realising he’s been motionless for a while. “Sorry. Just a little nervous I guess.”

“We just have to take your mind off it,” Hattie says as she places the plate of toast in front of him.

“That easy huh?” Oscar snorts.

“Yeah.” She takes one look at his face, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Okay, tell me about Lando.”

Oscar groans instantly, dropping his head onto the bench with a dull thud. “Really?”

“Yep,” she says cheerfully. “So… what’s he like? Off camera I mean.”

Oscar sighs, fiddling with the edge of the plate. “He’s… Lando. I mean he’s loud, talks too much sometimes. Thinks he’s funny.”

“Thinks?”

“Okay, he is funny,” he admits quietly, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Makes me a laugh a lot.”

“How did happen? You and him.”

“I don’t know,” Oscar hesitates, thumb running along the edge of his plate. “I mean, we were friends for a while. Then Lando won at Silverstone and he invited me out afterwards and as we were leaving, he… he kissed me.”

“He kissed you?”

“Yeah,” Oscar shrugs.

“So what, you two have just been happy little lovebirds since?”

“Well no,” Oscar sigh. “We kind of didn’t talk for a week after that. I sort of cornered him after Spa and made him talk to me. We did. Talk I mean, and yeah, here we are.”

Hattie groans, “you are the absolute worst at giving details you know that?”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Oscar says exasperated. “I answered your question.”

Hattie sighs. “Does he at least treat you well?”

That makes him look up. “Of course he does.”

“Like… proper nice? Not just, you know, ‘fast driver gives advice to his sad little reserve driver friend’ nice?”

He shoots her a look but can’t stop the laugh that slips out. “He’s more than nice. He’s…” Oscar pauses, searching for the right word. “He’s good. He cares about people. He cares about me.”

Hattie hums, tilts her head, watching him for a moment.

Oscar shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “Go on,” he says eventually.

“What?”

“Make a comment on it then, everyone else does.” He looks down at the table.

Hattie blinks. “I don’t know what you mean Oscar.”

“The age gap,” he says quietly. “The fact Lando is nine years older than me.”

“Oscar,” Hattie says softly, leaning forward and reaching out a hand to place over one of his. “I won’t lie and say I don’t have concerns, but I think Lando is a great guy, I really do. And even though I’ve only met him for like two seconds, he seems good for you. I’m not lying when I say I honestly don’t remember the last time I’ve seen you smile and be genuinely happy like this.”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” she squeeze his hand one more time. “You really like him don’t you? You wouldn’t care this much if you didn’t.”

Oscar feels his face warm. “Yeah I do.”

Hattie coos. “Awe look at you,” she says, delighted. “You’re in love.”

“What? No… no… I’m not,” Oscar stutters in protest.

“You so are,” she teases, grinning wide. “Look at you, you’re smiling like a lovesick teenager. This is adorable.”

Oscar groans. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Hattie laughs, kicking his shin lightly under the table. “You love him,” she says in a sing-song tone.

He drops his head onto the table yet again, muffled voice coming out somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Please stop talking.”

Hattie just laughs, completely unfazed. “Can’t wait see him again. I need to get to know the guy who turned my emotionally constipated brother into a blushing mess.”

Oscar lifts his head just enough to glare half-heartedly. “You’re the worst.”

She smiles sweetly. “You’re welcome.”

Mark arrives then saving Oscar from further teasing from Hattie. He’s leaning casually against the side of the car when Oscar opens the door, wearing his usual easy grin. “Morning,” he says. “You ready?”

Oscar forces a smile, locking the door behind him. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good,” Mark says, clapping him on the shoulder as they head to the car. “Let’s make a good impression.”

They’ve been driving for twenty minutes when Oscar’s patience starts to fray. His knee bounces with contained energy. He glances over at Mark, “are you going to me which team we’re meeting? You never responded to my texts.”

“Nope,” Mark says, far too casually.

Oscar groans. “You are cruel.”

Mark smirks. “A bit. I was going to but then I figured the surprise would be fun.”

“For who? You or me?”

“Oh me,” Mark laughs. “Definitely me.”

Oscar mutters something under his breath about torture and watches the scenery blur by. The roads change, glass buildings giving way to wide, open space. Oscar is too caught up in the moment to clock it at first. But as they pass the familiar signs, the growing recognition hits him all at once. The sweeping road, the carefully trimmed hedges, the reflective panels of glass visible through the trees and his stomach drops.

“Mark,” he says slowly, dread creeping up his spine. “Is this…”

Mark only smiles. “Surprise.”

The car turns through the gates of the McLaren Technology Centre, the huge glass-fronted building gleaming like something out of a dream. Except it doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels like the air’s been sucked out of the car.

Oscar’s breath catches. “You could have warned me.”

“Wouldn’t have been as fun,” Mark says lightly, parking the car. Then his tone softens. “Breathe, mate. You’ve earned being here.”

The moment they step through the MTC doors, Oscar feels small. Everything gleams, the floor, the curved white walls, the endless hallways. It’s quiet, efficient, purposeful. People move like they belong here. Oscar walks through it all with his heart in his throat.

They’re led to a glass conference room, sunlight spilling across the room from the floor to ceiling windows. Zac Brown and Andrea Stella are already there waiting.

“Good to see you again, Oscar,” Zac says warmly, rising to shake his hand. Andrea follows, nodding with a kind smile.

Oscar manages a polite, “Good to see you too,” though his throat feels dry. “Thank you for having me.”

Andrea smiles warmly. “We are very pleased you could come.”

Zac gestures for him to sit. “We’ve obviously been following your work this season,” he says. “Your data feedback’s been outstanding. Our simulator team’s also reviewed the information that’s been made public and cannot stop talking about how valuable your input’s been.”

“We have been really impressed with your work Oscar,” Andrea says. “You understand the car and you communicate clearly. That is very important to us.”

Oscar nods, soaking it in, barely able to believe this is about him.

Andrea adds, “And Lando’s been very complimentary of your approach. He’s mentioned more than once how focused and sharp you are. That’s rare.”

Oscar freezes. “He has?”

“Absolutely,” Zac says, smiling. “He’s been singing your praises. And we agree.” He folds his hands on the table, expression settling into something serious but kind. “Which brings us to why we asked Mark to bring you here.”

The air feels heavy, charged.

“We’ll be honest,” Zac continues. “We’re making some changes for next season. Alex and the team have mutually decided to part ways at the end of the year. That opens a seat alongside Lando, and… we’d like you to fill it.”

The words hit like static, ringing in his ears. It doesn’t hit Oscar all at once. The words hang in the air, heavy and unreal, and for a moment he’s sure he’s misheard. A seat. At McLaren. Driving with Lando.

Andrea leans forward slightly. “We think you’d fit well here, Oscar. You’re disciplined, technical, and you’ve already shown you work well with our systems… and with Lando.”

Zac slides a folder across the table. “We’d like you to join us next season.”

Oscar stares at it. His hands don’t move. His mind is too full, words tumbling too fast. His brain scrambles for logic. They can’t mean him. They must mean another season of testing, or a junior program, or… something safe. Not this. Not a real seat.

He forces himself to nod whilst Mark takes over, asking about legalities, negotiations, timelines, his voice a distant hum. Oscar doesn’t trust himself to speak. His world narrows to the folder of papers in front of him and the echo of Zac’s words looping in his head.

His hands are clasped in his lap so tight his knuckles ache. He’s wanted this for so long, dreamed about it until it hurt, but now that it’s being handed to him, he can’t quite believe it’s real.

A flicker of warmth sparks somewhere beneath the shock, a fragile bloom of joy that he tries to keep from showing on his face. McLaren. Lando’s team. Actually his team now, maybe. It feels impossible, like someone else’s story is happening to him.

The doubt slips in, quiet and sharp. What if they regret it? What if he’s just the convenient choice, the easy fix? He doesn’t let it show but it crawls up the back of his neck anyway, cold and unwelcome.

Another thought cuts through the haze, what does this mean for them? For him and Lando? The excitement that stutters in his chest is replaced by a ripple of unease. Sharing a team means press, rumours, scrutiny. It means Lando seeing him every day in a space that used to be only his. It means becoming rivals, it means Oscar becoming the first person Lando’s trying to beat each weekend. Oscar’s chest tightens with the thought, what if this changes things between them.

Oscar’s brought back to the room when Zac reaches across the table and opens the folder that’s in front of him. The first document is a contract, the McLaren logo sitting centred at the top. Oscar swears that for just a second his heartbeat stops. This could really be happening.

And under the disbelief and fear, a quiet steady pulse of happiness begins to take hold. Because even if he doesn’t fully believe it yet, part of him knows he’s finally done it.

When the meeting wraps, Oscar stands automatically, shaking hands with Zac and Andrea, thanking them earnestly. Zac shakes his hand, firm and confident. “We’d be lucky to have you.”

Andrea smiles, quieter but genuine. “We look forward to seeing what you can do.”

“Thank you,” Oscar breathes out. “For everything, I don’t…”

“You don’t have to thank us,” Andrea smiles. “Your skills, work ethic and attitude is what got you to this point.”

Oscar feels his face flush at the compliments. “Right, thank you. I… yeah.”

Zac laughs. “Go look over the contract. I’ll be in touch with Mark to organise another meeting soon.”

As they step into the hallway, Oscar glances back at the conference room, mind still spinning. The contract, the words, all of it feels unreal. He hesitates, then turns back to Zac and Andrea, who are wrapping things up with Mark.

“Does…” he swallows, trying  keep his voice even. “Does Lando know?”

Zac looks up. “Not yet,” he responds. “We wanted to speak with you first.”

Andrea nods, his smile gentle. “You two are close friends yes? I think he’d appreciate being told from you. We can wait until tomorrow to talk to Lando can’t we?” he asks Zac.

“We can indeed,” Zac confirms. “Besides, he’s been singing your praises for months, so I doubt he’ll be totally surprised.”

Oscar’s chest tightens, a mix of pride and nerves tangling together. “Right,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I can tell him.”

Zac gives him a reassuring nod. “Good, he’ll be thrilled, I’m sure of it.”

Oscar smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Because underneath all the excitement is that small part of him that is worried about what this might mean for him and Lando.

The moment the conference room door shuts behind them, Mark doesn’t give Oscar a chance to say anything. He turns, eyes bright, and pulls him straight into a hug, firm, grounding, the kind that says everything words can’t.

“I’m so bloody proud of you mate,” Mark says against his shoulder, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve earned this. Every damn bit of it.”

Oscar stands there for a moment, frozen before letting himself relax into it. The warmth of the words hits harder than he expects, a lump catching in his throat. “Thanks Mark,” he manages, voice small.

Mark pulls back just enough to grip his shoulders, giving him a shake that makes Oscar crack a tiny, disbelieving smile. “I mean it. You’ve worked your arse off for years, and now you’re getting what you deserve.”

Oscar nods, still dazed, eyes flicking back to the closed door like the whole thing might vanish if he blinks.

Mark squeezes his shoulder again. “Told you it’d happen, didn’t I?”

This time, Oscar laughs, quiet but real. “Yeah, you did.

“I’m going to get all the paperwork sorted. You go call your Mum,” Mark nudges his shoulder. “She’ll get mad at us both if founds out she wasn’t the first to know.”

Oscar laughs shakily, a grin breaking through the disbelief. “Yeah. I will.”

Oscar pulls his phone out as Mark wanders off. But before he even thinks to dial his Mum’s number, he’s pulling up Lando’s contact, thumbs trembling slightly as he types, ‘When are you done at McLaren today?’

He hesitates a second, staring at the message. Then he hits send, pulse hammering in his ears.

Oscar wanders further down the corridor and finds a private space to call his Mum. His back is pressed to the glass wall of one of the smaller side corridors of the McLaren Technology Centre, the quiet hum of the building settling around him. His pulse hasn’t slowed since he left the meeting room.

It rings twice before Nicole picks up.

“Oscar?” she says, instantly alert. “Everything alright, love?”

He laughs, breathless, unable to hold it in. “Yeah. More than alright, Mum. Do you uh… do you have a minute?”

“Course I do,” she responds. “What’s going on?”

“You’re not driving are you?”

“What?” Nicole laughs nervously. “No I’m not driving, I’m just at home. What’s going on Oscar? You’re making me nervous.”

Oscar smiles slightly. “Mark and I just met with a team Mum, I’ve been offered a seat for next season.”

A stunned pause. “What?”

“Yeah,” Oscar laughs, trying desperately to blink back the tears he can feel building in the corners of his eyes.

Nicole gasps, and he hears her voice wobble before it breaks into a watery laugh. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, half laughing, half crying. “Oh my god, that’s incredible! I knew it would happen for you. I just knew it.”

“Thanks Mum.”

“So what colour am I wearing?” Nicole asks. “Pink, blue?”

“Uh…” Oscar hesitates for a second. “Orange actually.”

“Orange?” Nicole asks stunned. “Orange… like McLaren?”

“Yeah, McLaren,” he says, grinning now, so hard his cheeks hurt. “They offered me a full time drive for next year.”

He can hear his Mum is full on crying now as she comes to terms with the fact that her son is going to be on the grid now.

“Oh gosh,” Nicole laughs. “Oh Oscar, I am so happy for you. How are you feeling?”

Oscar leans against the wall, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. “Yeah, I… I don’t know if I really believe it yet.  It feels… surreal.”

“You deserve it,” she says. “After everything. All the years of work. I’m so proud of you, darling.”

“Thanks, Mum.” He rubs his hand over his face, the adrenaline finally catching up to him. “I can’t really believe it.”

“You will,” she says softly. “You always do.” There’s a short pause, “so I’m assuming that means you’ll be teammates with Lando, doesn’t it?”

Oscar’s breath stutters. “Oh, uh, yeah it does.”

“The four-time world champion,” she says carefully.

Oscar huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, Mum. That one.”

There’s another small silence, not unhappy, just thoughtful. “Well,” she says finally, tone shifting slightly into that practical, protective register he knows so well. “I know you guys are friends to that’s wonderful, should help you get settled into McLaren easier.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, waiting for the rest of his Mum’s comment to come.

“But you need to make sure you don’t get swallowed up.”

Oscar straightens a little. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says gently, “he’s very established. He’s a very big personality, with a very big media presence. You’ve worked too hard to be in anyone’s shadow.”

Oscar’s smile softens. “I won’t be.”

“I know you won’t,” she says quickly. “I just, I want you to remember who you are. You didn’t get this because of him. You got it because you’re good enough.”

His chest tightens at that. “I know.”

“And it will be brilliant,” she continues, more upbeat now. “But it will be competitive. Intense. You’ll have to carve your own space.”

Oscar nods, even though she can’t see him. “I will.”

“Good. I really am proud of you Oscar,” he can hear the smile in her voice, and then, in a tone that’s a little too casual, “So, is that what Hattie meant?”

“What?” Oscar frowns.

“When I talked to her last night,” Nicole says, “she told me you had something you wanted to tell me. Said it was big news. I assume she was talking about this.”

Oscar groans, tipping his head back against the wall. “I told her not to say anything, she’s a menace.”

Nicole laughs gently. “So? What else did she mean? You havent gotten into any trouble have you?”

“No Mum,” He hesitates slightly before continuing. “It’s… nothing bad, I promise. I just, um…” He swallows before just letting it out. “I met someone.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Then Nicole’s voice says, light and delighted. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he admits quietly, glancing down the hall as if someone might overhear. “We’ve been seeing each other for about a month now.”

“Oh, Oscar, that’s wonderful!” she says, voice bright again. “You sound happy.”

He can’t help smiling. “Yeah, I am.”

“So tell me,” she says, conspiratorial now. “What’s his name? What do they do?”

He stalls, words tripping. “Uh… they work in the paddock.”

“Someone who understands the lifestyle, then,” she says knowingly. “Good. That’ll make things easier.”

“Yeah,” he says again, voice softer.

Nicole sighs fondly. “I’m so happy for you, darling. I really am. Between this and the McLaren offer, things are finally falling into place for you.”

“Yeah,” Oscar murmurs. “Feels like it.”

“I want to hear all about them soon,” she adds. “But I’ll let you go celebrate first.”

He laughs, relieved. “Thanks, Mum. I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too.”

When he hangs up, he stands there for a long moment, the quiet hum of the MTC buzzing faintly through the glass wall beside him. He looks out across the lake, the building gleaming in the reflection. His Mum’s pride is still echoing in his ears, her voice shaky and soft in the way it always gets when she’s emotional. He looks down at his phone as it buzzes again.

‘Just finishing up some sim work. Be done soon if you wanna meet up afterwards? I wanna hear all about how this meeting went :)’

Oscar stares at the message, the corner of his mouth lifting before he locks and pockets his phone without responding. He finds the nearest employee, asks for directions to the simulator rooms, and starts walking, the corridors of the MTC gleaming around him. Every step sends another wave of adrenaline through his veins. He feels wired, electric.

When he gets there, he stops in the doorway for a moment. Through the glass, he can see Lando hunched over a monitor, headset half off, scrolling through lines of data with that familiar, laser-focused frown. The blue glow from the screens lights his face, casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones.

Oscar knocks lightly against the frame. “Hey.”

Lando doesn’t look up at first. “I’ll be done in a second.”

Oscar laughs to himself. “Lando.”

That gets Lando’s attention, his head snapping towards the door, his brow furrowed. “Oscar? What are you… what are you doing here?” Then something shifts in his expression. His eyes widen, searching Oscar’s face. “Wait…” He straightens. “McLaren?”

Oscar can’t keep the grin off his face. “McLaren.”

There’s a beat of silence where Lando just looks at him. Then, without warning, he launches forward. The headset clatters onto the desk as he closes the distance in two long strides, catching Oscar in a fierce, dizzying hug that knocks the air clean out of him.

Oscar laughs into Lando’s shoulder, trying to keep his balance as Lando actually lifts him off the ground, spinning them in a small, clumsy circle. “Jesus, Lando!”

“Couldn’t help it,” Lando says, voice half laughing, half shaky. He sets Oscar down but doesn’t let go, his hands firm on his back. Then, in a rush, he kisses him.

Oscar melts into it before he can even think about the fact anyone could see them.

When Lando pulls back, his breath ghosts against Oscar’s lips. “Guess we better get used to seeing each other even more now,” he murmurs.

Oscar’s voice comes out soft, low. “It’s a good thing I already like you then.”

That gets a grin, showing the little gap between his teeth, but there’s something else behind it. Lando’s eyes are slightly red, the edges tired, and though he’s smiling, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice has that faint rasp that sneaks in when he hasn’t slept properly for days.

Oscar tells himself it’s just that, exhaustion. He’s seen Lando’s schedule, how his life spins from one commitment to the next with barely a breath between. It’s no wonder he looks like he’s running on fumes.

Before Oscar can say anything, voices echo down the corridor, Zac’s easy laugh, Andrea’s quieter tone, and Mark trailing just behind them.

They both spring apart instinctively, Lando shoving his hands into his pockets as Zac pushes open the door.

“Knew we’d find you in here,” Andrea says with a knowing smile, gaze flicking between them.

Oscar’s ears burn.

Zac beams when he spots Oscar. “So, I’m guessing you’ve told him?”

Lando nods quickly, grin slipping back into place. “Yeah, just now.”

“Brilliant,” Zac says, rubbing his hands together. “This is going to be fantastic. You two are going to make a hell of a team next year.”

Oscar opens his mouth to thank him but catches the flicker of something in Lando’s face again, the slight pinch between his brows, the shadow of thought behind his smile. It’s gone as fast as it appears, replaced with a bright, easy grin.

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly. “It’s going to be great.”

Andrea claps a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “We’ll let you boys celebrate, then.”

As they leave, Mark gives Oscar a wink that only deepens his blush.

When the door shuts, the room feels too quiet. Lando’s still smiling, but it’s tighter now, his jaw flexing like he’s holding something back.

Oscar studies him, chest tight. This should be one of the best moments of his life, and it is, but there’s a strange current running underneath it. He thought Lando would be over the moon, maybe teasing him already about team dynamics or who’s going to be faster. Instead, there’s this flicker of tension that doesn’t make sense.

He wants to ask, to say what’s wrong, but doesn’t get the chance to. Lando beats him to it, clapping his hands once and saying, too brightly, “Come on, we should get out of here before Zac finds something else for me to do.”

Oscar forces a small smile, following him out, but that quiet unease stays with him.

…

The door to Oscar’s apartment clicks shut behind them and the sound feels grounding, like the world is finally giving Oscar a moment to catch up to himself. The evening chill stays outside, the city noise dulled to a distant hum. Oscar's pulse still races from the electric thrill of being offered his seat for next year. The weight of it settles in his chest, bright and unreal, like standing on the edge of something he has worked toward for so long he forgets what it feels like to actually arrive.

“No Hattie?” Lando asks as they move inside.

“No,” Oscar replies. “She’s out with some friends tonight. Told me not to expect her until late tomorrow morning.”

Lando laughs and turns to him with that grin, the one that always knocks the breath out of Oscar’s lungs. Pride sits openly in his eyes now, unfiltered and bright. “Osc,” he says, voice soft with it. “You did it.”

“Yeah,” Oscar laughs quietly, a little dazed.

Lando's hand gives Oscar's shoulder a quick, firm squeeze before he wanders toward the kitchen, already pulling open the fridge door with a practiced ease. The cool air from inside wafts out and Oscar watches the way Lando's muscles shift under his t-shirt, a simple black one that's seen better days, clinging slightly from the day's sweat.

“So, how do you want to celebrate?” Lando throws over his shoulder. “I could cook us a nice pasta dish, glass of wine? Or we could order in? Up to you?”

Oscar leans against the counter, the cool stone grounding under his palms. The question hangs in the air, simple on the surface, but it’s pressing on something that’s sitting deep within.

The day’s joy hums through Oscar’s veins, loosening something in him. Confidence edges out the nerves before he can stop it.

“I want you to teach me,” Oscar blurts out.

Lando stills. He turns slowly, brows lifting, expression open but careful. “Teach you what?”

Oscar feels the heat rushing up his neck, but he doesn’t look away. “I want to…” he swallows sharply. “I want you to teach me how to… how to give a blowjob?” Oscar finishes, cringing at the way the words came rushing out quickly.

Lando’s eyes go wide, the colour draining slightly from his face before a deep red flush creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks. He turns fully to face Oscar, hands raised slightly as if warding off a punchline or some elaborate joke.

“Oscar, are you… are you sure? That’s a… that’s a big step,” he stammers, voice pitching higher in disbelief, his usual confidence cracking just a bit. “You've had a massive day, maybe we should just chill first, process it all.” His gaze searches Oscar's face intently, brows furrowed in concern.

“Oh sorry,” Oscar says far too quickly. Heat rushes to his face, the confidence that was there now giving way to embarrassment blooming sharp and immediate. He straightens instinctively, pulling back half a step like he has overstepped without realising it. “Sorry, that was stupid.”

Lando’s frown deepens. “Osc…”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Oscar rushes on, words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. I know it’s been a long day but I just… yeah, I’m sorry.” His hands curl the hem of his shirt, grounding himself. “Guess I just got carried away, adrenaline and all. We can just eat, watch something. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Lando steps closer immediately. “Hey,” he says again, firmer this time. “Look at me.”

Oscar hesitates, then does, bracing himself.

“I didn’t say no,” Lando says quietly. “I said let’s slow it down a bit.”

Oscar swallows, confusion flickering across his face.

Lando’s voice softens. “I just don’t want you thinking you have to do anything because today’s been huge or because you’re riding the high. I want it to be because you want it, not because everything feels turned up right now.”

Oscar’s shoulders sag slightly, tension easing even as his cheeks stay warm. “I do want it Lando,” he admits quietly. “Kind of been thinking about it for while.”

“Oh,” Lando’s grin turns mischievous, he comes to stand in front of Oscar, arms going around his waist. “Have you now?”

Oscar’s ears burn instantly. “I wasn’t…”

“Nah uh,” Lando cuts in gently, clearly enjoying himself now. “You’re the one who said it. Wanting to celebrate by blowing me.”

Oscar groans, dropping his head onto Lando’s shoulder, feeling the vibration of Lando’s laughter. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“It’s kind of adorable, you know.”

“It is not,” Oscar mutters.

“Come on,” Lando says, pulling Oscar back upright. “Let’s eat and then we can come back to this conversation afterwards.”

“Yeah okay,” Oscar relents, desperately trying to push down the lingering seeds of doubt as he moves to help Lando with dinner.

Afterwards, their plates sit abandoned on the coffee table, cutlery pushed aside. Dinner ends up quieter than Oscar expects, the kind of quiet that settles when something important waits just beneath the surface.

They sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch, the tv murmuring nonsense neither of them is following. Lando’s knee presses lightly against Oscar’s, solid and reassuring.

Oscar’s heart hasn’t slowed down.

Lando glances at him eventually, head tipping slightly, reading him the way he always seems to. “Hey,” he says softly.

Oscar looks over. “Yeah?”

Lando turns his body a little more toward him, forearm resting along the back of the couch. There’s no teasing in his expression now, just care. “I want to check in again,” he says. “About before.”

Oscar’s stomach flips, nerves sparking back to life. “Okay.”

Lando takes his time. “I want this, I do. God you have no idea how much I want to do this with you. But I want to, no I need to, make sure that this is still what you want now that things have calmed down, no adrenaline, no pressure.”

Oscar swallows, thinking. The excitement is still there, warm and steady, but so is the nervous flutter, the awareness of what it means to cross that line together. He realises, with a strange sense of calm, that the wanting has not gone anywhere.

“Yeah,” he says steadily. “I’m sure.”

Lando searches his face for a long moment, breath catching, then exhales sharply. “Okay.”

Oscar shifts closer without really meaning to, their thighs pressing together fully now. “Thanks for asking though,” he add, voice low. “Both times.”

Lando smiles at that, fond and warm, and reaches out to lace their fingers together. “Always.”

He cups Oscar's face with a gentle hand, thumb stroking softly over the heated skin, leaning in for a soft, reassuring kiss that lingers just enough to steady them both, lips brushing tender, a hint of promise in the way Lando's mouth moves.

When they part, Lando's voice drops lower. “Bedroom? Might be a bit more comfortable.”

They move down the hall hand in hand, fingers intertwined, the air thickening with anticipation that makes Oscar's skin tingle. Every brush of skin sends sparks up his arm, and he steals glances at Lando's profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips curve in a half smile.

The bedroom door swings open to the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the unmade bed, sheets rumpled invitingly from the morning rush. 

Lando sits on the edge of the mattress, pulling Oscar into the space between his legs. He leans in, closing the distance between them, their mouths meeting in a soft, unhurried kiss that feels like an exhale. Lando’s hand comes up to Oscar’s jaw, thumb warm against his skin. Oscar melts into it, the last of his nerves easing as he realises there is no rush here, no expectations, just this moment.

The kiss deepens gradually, mouths fitting together seamlessly. Oscar’s hands slide into Lando’s shirt, lifting it slightly so he can press his fingers against Lando’s skin. Lando pulls back slightly, enough to reach down and pull his shirt over his head, revealing the tanned muscles and lean lines of his chest.

“Get this off too,” Lando says as his hand slips into the back of Oscar’s shirt and tugs over his head.

Oscar doesn’t have time to feel self-conscious before he’s letting out a surprised noise when he feels himself being tugged forward, Lando moving further into the bed and drawing Oscar along with him. The mattress dipping as they fall together in a tangle of limbs and soft laughter.

Lando leans in again, pressing his mouth to Oscar’s, tongue slipping out to tease Oscar’s lower lip. The kiss deepens naturally, Oscar’s hand sliding up to thread into the messy curls at the nape of Lando’s neck.

Lando’s free hand roams lower, palm flattening against Oscar’s hip before dipping under the waistband of his boxers, fingers grazing the curve of his arse without pushing further. Oscar gasps into Lando’s mouth, hips rocking forward instinctively, his hardening cock brushing Lando’s through the thin layers of fabric separating them.

“Feels good?” Lando whispers against his mouth, pulling back just enough to search Oscar's face, thumb stroking his cheek. Oscar nods again, words failing him, and Lando chuckles softly, nipping at his bottom lip before capturing it fully once more.

They shift on the bed, Lando rolling them, so Oscar straddles his lap, the weight of his body grounding yet thrilling. Oscar's hands explore freely now, palms gliding over Lando's shoulders, down the defined lines of his chest, thumbs circling the flat discs of his nipples until they pebble under his touch. Lando groans low, arching into it, his own hands kneading Oscar's thighs, squeezing the firm muscle there before one slips between them to cup Oscar through his boxers, squeezing him gently. The sensation draws a whimper from Oscar, his cock fully erect now, leaking a damp spot against the cotton.

“God, you have no idea how gorgeous you are like this,” Lando breathes, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along Oscar's jaw, down the column of his throat where his pulse hammers. He sucks lightly at the skin there, not enough to mark but enough to make Oscar's head fall back, exposing more for Lando's mouth. Teeth graze his collarbone, tongue laving at the dip above it, while Lando's hand continues to stroke Oscar's length over the fabric, slow and firm, thumb pressing into the wet head. Oscar bucks into the touch, grinding down onto Lando's thigh for friction.

Lando's cock hardens beneath him, thick and insistent against Oscar's arse, and the feel of it is making Oscar's mouth water anew.

“Lando,” he pants, fingers digging into Lando's shoulders as he pulls back, eyes dark with need. “I’m ready.”

Lando stills, hand pausing mid-stroke, his expression shifting to one of careful attentiveness. “You sure?” Oscar nods in response. “Words Oscar, I need words.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Oscar says. “But can you… I’ll need…”

“Yeah,” Lando smiles reassuringly, both hands settling on Oscar's hips to steady him. “I’ll talk you through it, step by step. No rush.”

Relief floods Oscar, mingled with anticipation, and he leans down for one more deep kiss, tongues tangling messily before he slides off Lando's lap. “What do I do now?”

Lando laughs as he props himself up on pillows. He pulls his sweats and boxers down to free his cock, thick, veined, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum, just as Oscar remembers from last time but even more intoxicating the second time. Oscar's throat tightens, a mix of nerves and hunger twisting.

“Come sit between my legs,” Lando says, waiting for Oscar to do so. “Start with your hand first,” Lando instructs softly, voice steady and encouraging. Oscar reaches out, wrapping tentative fingers around the base, feeling it throb hotly in his grip. He mimics the motion Lando showed him last time, sliding down to the base where coarse hair tickles his wrist, then up again, twisting lightly at the crown where the head flares. Lando groans softly, head tipping back against the headboard with a thud, eyes fluttering half closed. “Yeah, just like that.” Oscar continues with growing confidence, watching Lando’s face for cues, the way his eyelids flutter, lips parting on a quiet moan. Pre-cum beads steadily, easing the glide.

“When you’re ready, lean in closer. Lick the head first, flat tongue, get it all wet and slippery.” Lando’s fingers card through Oscar’s head, not pulling, just resting there as guidance.

Oscar's can hear his pulse beating as he leans closer, his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin, warm and shaky, before his tongue darts out tentatively, lapping broad and exploratory over the flushed tip. The taste hits him immediately, salty musk, a hint of bitterness from the pre-cum. Lando's hips shift minutely on the bed, the hand resting on Oscar's head tightening. “Perfect, Osc. That's exactly it, now take it in your mouth. Suck gentle at first, lips sealed around the ridge just under the head. Breathe through your nose, relax your jaw.”

Oscar parts his lips, taking the head inside slowly, the weight settling heavy on his tongue as he sucks lightly, cheeks hollowing with the effort. The stretch is immediate and intense, mouth filling with Lando, saliva starting to pool at the edges of his mouth. He bobs shallowly at first, experimenting with the rhythm, tongue pressing flat against the thick underside vein that pulses steadily under the attention, tracing its path.

“Fuck Osc,” Lando breathes, voice roughening at the edges, a shiver running through his thighs. “You don’t have to, this is good, but you can try sliding down slow, inch by inch. Use your hand on what's left outside, stroke in time with your mouth, twist a little at the top to catch that sensitive spot.”

Emboldened by the praise, Oscar takes more, lips stretching taut around the thickness, the corners of his mouth already starting to ache slightly. His hand pumps the base slickly now, coated in saliva as it drips down, easing the glide as his head moves with growing rhythm and confidence. He swirls his tongue around the head deliberately, probing the sensitive bundle of nerves there, and Lando's thighs tense under his arms, a low, throaty moan escaping from deep in his chest. “God yeah, right there.”

Oscar pushes further, determined to take more of Lando into his mouth. But the head nudges the back of his throat too suddenly, triggering a reflexive gag that clamps his airway. Tears flood his eyes as he chokes harshly, coughing wetly around the intrusion. Panic flares for a second, and he yanks off with a desperate gasp, his chest heaving as he wipes at his mouth. His face is flushed with embarrassment and the sharp burn in his throat.

“Sorry,” Oscar gasps. “Sorry, I…”

Lando’s hand is there instantly, cupping his jaw tenderly, thumb brushing away a stray tear while his other arm pulls him close against his chest, voice a soothing murmur against his hair. “Hey, no, it’s okay. We just went a bit too fast, that’s all. You’re learning.”

“I’ve ruined it,” he mumbles into Lando’s chest. “God, I knew I’d be terrible at this.”

“You haven’t ruined anything okay? I promise. Nobody’s perfect at this on their first go. Hell, I was terrible, gagged and pretty sure I bit the guy,” Lando admits with a chuckle.

“Are you seriously telling me about you being with another guy right now?” Oscar huffs a laugh.

“I’m trying to make you feel better,” Lando swats jokingly at Oscar’s arm. “Next time we’ll know to go a bit slower, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Oscar shakes himself off and pushes himself back so he can look at Lando. “I’ve killed the mood though now, haven’t I?”

“Ah,” Lando starts, looking down at his still very flushed and hard cock. “Judging by this, I’m going to say no.”

Oscar lets out a small laugh, embarrassment still lingering, but dulled now by the visible evidence of Lando still being incredibly turned on, and by him. He bites his lip as he crawls back down so he’s nestled between Lando’s legs once again.

Lando’s eyes widen slightly at Oscar’s actions. “Osc, I didn’t mean we have to keep going now,” Lando says gently. “We can stop if you want to.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Oscar smirks before sinking his mouth over Lando’s cock once again, drawing a sharp gasp from Lando. He makes sure to relax as much as he can to avoid gagging again. Lando's breaths come faster, ragged and uneven, fingers returning to Oscar’s hair.

“Fuck, your mouth feels incredible,” Lando groans out.

Oscar picks up the pace, head bobbing more fluidly, avoiding going too deeply. One hand braced on Lando’s thigh, feeling the muscle tense under his palm, the other twisting slickly over the lower half in perfect sync, feeling the cock throb heavily against his tongue, swelling even more. Pre-cum leaking steadily onto his taste buds, bitter and slick, coating his throat as he swallows around it.

Lando's hips shift upward subtly, instinctively chasing the wet heat enveloping him, moans turning guttural and unrestrained, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. “Osc, I'm close… shit, so good, you're a natural…” The words cut off in a hiss as tension coils visibly in his body, abs tightening, breaths hitching sharply.

Suddenly, Lando's hand firms on Oscar's shoulder, pushing him back gently but firmly, cock slipping free with a wet, audible pop, bobbing slick and angry-red in the air, veins pulsing with need. Strands of saliva connect Oscar's swollen lips to the glistening tip for a moment before breaking.

Oscar blinks up through watery eyes, lips shiny and parted, confusion swirling with the abrupt loss of fullness in his mouth, a string of spit trailing down his chin. “Why'd you…?” His voice comes out hoarse and breathy, a mix of uncertainty, lingering arousal, and a touch of disappointment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he sits back on his heels.

Lando pants heavily, chest heaving with the effort of restraint, eyes dark and hooded with desire as he reaches down to cup Oscar's jaw tenderly, thumb tracing the slick lower lip. “Didn't want to make you swallow on your first go, Osc. It's a lot to handle… bitter, messy, can catch you off guard if you're not ready. Didn’t want to overwhelm you on your first go.” His thumb brushes away the stray saliva, voice softening further with that caring edge Oscar has come to crave.

Oscar nods slowly, processing the thoughtfulness behind the action, a warmth blooming in his chest that chases away the slight sting of interruption, mixing with the ache in his jaw and the persistent throb of his own erection. “Oh... Thanks.”

Lando's smile returns, relieved and heated. “Want to finish me off with your hands then?”

Oscar laughs but reaches out to wrap his hand around Lando’s cock. He moves with a steady rhythm that is becoming recognisable. A low moan comes from deep in Lando’s throat. Oscar’s watches as Lando’s abs tense and thigh part wider instinctively. The room fills with the wet sound of skin on skin, Oscar’s palms growing slick as he speeds up, thumb circling the sensitive underside.

“God, I’m going to cum Osc. Keep going,” Lando’s voice breaks on the last word.

Oscar tightens his grip, pumping relentlessly now. Lando’s whole body shudders with a choked cry, back arched off the bed, thick ropes of cum spilling over his fingers. Oscar doesn’t stop until Lando slumps back, spent and trembling, then he releases gently, wiping his hand on the sheet before crawling up to nestle against Lando’s side.

Lando turns immediately, pulling him close with a lazy, satisfied grin. His lips brushing against his forehead in a tender kiss. “You are perfect,” he whispers, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Oscar’s back, the warmth of their bodies mingling in the aftermath, solidifying everything between them.

Chapter Text

McLAREN RACING ANNOUNCES OSCAR PIASTRI FOR 2026 FORMULA 1 SEASON

Woking, United Kingdom – 28 August 2025

McLaren Racing has today announced that Australian driver Oscar Piastri will join the McLaren Formula 1 Team from the 2026 season, replacing Alex Dunne. Piastri will race alongside current driver and multiple World Champion Lando Norris.

The 20 year old Melbourne born driver joins McLaren after serving as reserve and development driver at Alpine, where he has impressed with his technical understanding, consistency, and commitment. Piastri brings a proven track record of success and a reputation for calm precision behind the wheel.

McLaren Racing CEO Zak Brown said:

“We’re absolutely delighted to welcome Oscar to McLaren. He’s one of the brightest young talents in motorsport and has shown remarkable maturity for his age. His race craft, dedication, and analytical approach make him a perfect fit for our team as we continue to build towards sustained success. I want to thank Alex for his hard work and professionalism this season and wish him the very best for his future.”

Team Principal Andrea Stella added:

“Oscar has impressed us with his work ethic and. His technical input and ability to adapt quickly have been exceptional. With Oscar and Lando, we have one of the most exciting and competitive driver pairings on the grid. We’re looking forward to seeing what they can achieve together.”

Oscar Piastri said:

“I’m incredibly excited to be joining McLaren. It’s an honour to become part of a team with such a rich history in Formula 1 and to line up alongside Lando, who I’ve admired both as a driver and as a person. I’m grateful to Zak, Andrea, and everyone at McLaren for the opportunity, and I can’t wait to get started.”

The pairing of Norris and Piastri marks the next chapter in McLaren’s reign, combining experience, talent, and youth as the team continues its push to remain at the front of the grid.

For media enquiries:

McLaren Racing Communications

[email protected]

www.mclaren.com

…

A lot has happened in the week leading up to the Dutch Grand Prix. At the start of the week Oscar finds himself back at the McLaren Technology Centre. It feels different this time, it doesn’t feel as vast or huge, but definitely just as alive. There is a quiet hum in the air as he and Mark walk down the long glass corridor toward the conference suite, the papaya glow from the display cars reflecting faintly on the walls. His pulse thrums louder with every step.

When they enter the room, Zac Brown and Andrea Stella are already waiting, along with two legal representatives and a communications manager. A stack of neatly arranged papers sit in the centre of the table, a McLaren pen placed perfectly above them.

Zac stands, smiling broadly. “Good to see you again, Oscar. Big day.”

“Yeah,” Oscar manages to return, the word thinner than he intends.

Andrea gestures for him to sit, his tone kind but businesslike. “This is just to make it official,” he says. “You’ve earned this, Oscar. We’ve been watching how you’ve handled yourself all year, the professionalism, the work in the sim, the feedback from Lando. You’ve made a real impression.”

Oscar shifts slightly in his chair. Compliments still feel strange when they’re not immediately followed by a ‘but.’ Lando has told him many times that he doesn’t take compliments well.

Zac leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve done everything right. This,” he nods to the contract, “is the next step. A fresh start.”

Mark nudges the papers toward him, eyes warm behind his glasses. “Whenever you’re ready, mate.”

Oscar exhales slowly. He picks up the pen, turning it between his fingers, tracing the silver McLaren logo engraved on the side. His name is printed neatly beneath the signature line ‘Oscar Piastri, McLaren Formula 1 Driver, 2026 Season’.

He signs. The sound of the pen scratching across paper was quiet, but it feels deafening in his ears.

When he finishes, Zac shakes his hand. “Welcome to McLaren.”

Andrea follows, his handshake firm, genuine. “We’re looking forward to seeing you in papaya.”

Oscar smiles, almost shyly. “Me too.”

Mark claps him on the shoulder, the weight of pride and relief behind it. “We’ll take care of the legal side,” he says. “Alpine will be notified officially this week. You don’t need to get involved in that, just keep your head down and be ready for Zandvoort.”

Zac adds, “The announcement will go out Thursday morning, media day. You’ll do a short interview with our team, but that’s it. We’ll manage the press and the online rollout. Just focus on being you.”

Oscar nods, barely processing. His head feels light. “Thursday,” he repeats, as if saying it aloud would make it more real.

As they leave the room, walking back toward the central atrium, Mark looks at him sidelong. “You did it, kid.”

Oscar lets out a shaky laugh. “Feels weird hearing that.”

“Good weird?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Good weird.”

They stop for a moment beside one of McLaren’s championship cars, one of Lando’s, the orange body gleaming under the lights. Oscar stares at it, at the number four, at Lando’s name printed neatly above the cockpit, and for the first time, had allows himself to imagine his own there.

Mark breaks the silence, voice low. “Told you it would happen, didn’t I?”

Oscar grins faintly, throat tight. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did.”

…

It’s a race weekend again, Summer break officially coming to end. The familiar scent of fuel and rubber think in the air, mixed this time with the briny tang of the North Sea just beyond the circuit fences. Zandvoort hums with its usual chaos, the orange haze of flares, the chants echoing from the grandstands, the mechanical symphony of engines firing in the garages.

Oscar sits in the Alpine garage, pretending to study the data on the screen in front of him, but the energy in the room feels different now, colder and stiffer. Every conversation seems to stop a beat too early when he walks past. Engineers who once laughed with him during late nights on sim runs now speak in clipped tones or avoid looking at him altogether.

He tells himself he should have expected it. He did expect it. Still, the reality stings sharper than he imagined.

One of the mechanics flips the large monitor over to the world feed. He doesn’t say anything but the moment Oscar catches the headline scrolling across the ticker, his stomach drops.

Breaking: McLaren Racing confirms Oscar Piastri joins the team for 2026, replacing Alex Dunne.

The broadcast cuts to the Sky Sports team, where Craig Slater is mid-sentence, voice bright and polished.

“… a move that’s come out of nowhere. The young Australian will partner Lando Norris next season, forming what McLaren calls its ‘most exciting driver pairing yet.’”

The camera flashes to shots of Lando in papaya, smiling during a pre-race interview. Oscar’s throat tightens when he sees it. The sight should make him happy, and it does, in a quiet, secret way, but surrounded by Alpine blue, it feels like treason.

Simon Lazenby then chimes in, tone speculative. “You have to wonder what went down in Alpine. Piastri’s been part of their program for years but they chose to sign another rookie, essentially losing him to a direct rival like McLaren must raise some questions internally about how they handled this one.”

A murmur ripples through the garage. Someone mutters something under their breath, too low for Oscar to catch all of it, but he catches enough to know it wasn’t kind.

He tries to focus on the telemetry again, but the numbers blur together. His hands fidget with the edge of his gloves, his pulse loud in his ears. Every so often, he feels eyes on him, glances traded between engineers, pit crew, anyone who’s suddenly decided he’s no longer one of them.

“Big move, huh?” a voice says from behind him.

Oscar looks up to see Esteban leaning against the wall, arms folded. His tone isn’t cruel, if anything, it’s neutral, but it still makes Oscar’s heart pound faster.

“Yeah,” Oscar says quietly, eyes back on the screen. “Guess so.”

On the monitor, the broadcast cuts to a slow motion clip of McLaren mechanics high fiving in their garage, Lando’s name flashing in bold papaya orange underneath the McLaren logo. Oscar watches for a moment longer, then quietly turns away from the feed.

Esteban lingers a little longer than Oscar expects and when he doesn’t move away, Oscar looks up, wary.

Esteban’s expression softens. “Hey,” he says, lowering his voice so it won’t carry. “Ignore them. They’ll get over it.”

Oscar blinks, caught off guard. “You don’t… think it’s shitty? Me leaving?”

Esteban shakes his head. “No. You did what you had to do. Everyone wants to drive. None of us got into this sport to sit around hoping someone else messes up.”

Oscar lets out a quiet breath, the tension in his chest easing a little. “I just didn’t think it’d feel like this. Like I’ve…”

“Betrayed them?” Esteban finishes for him, lips quirking wryly. “Yeah. It’s how this place works. Family until you leave, competition the second you do. Don’t take it personally. You earned that seat, Oscar. Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for it.”

Oscar swallows, looking back at the monitor where the McLaren garage flashes again, Lando laughing with one of the engineers, easy and bright. “It just feels weird,” he admits. “Sitting here while they talk about me like I’m already gone.”

“You are gone,” Esteban says simply, but there’s no bite in it. “And that’s fine. It means you’re moving forward.” He pauses, nudging Oscar’s arm with a faint grin. “And between you and me, I’m glad it’s McLaren. Better fit for you.”

Oscar manages a small smile at that. “Yeah?”

Esteban nods. “Yeah. You’ll do well there. Just…” he tilts his head slightly, gaze flicking to the corner of the screen where Lando’s interview still plays, “maybe don’t forget to keep your head in the racing too.”

Oscar’s ears warm instantly, but Esteban’s grin turns teasing for only a moment before softening again. “Seriously,” he says, clapping Oscar’s shoulder. “You deserve this. Let the rest of them stew.”

Oscar exhales slowly, a shaky smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Esteban steps away, giving one last look around the garage, at the cold stares, the whispered glances, then back to Oscar. “They’ll realise soon enough you’re the one who got the better deal.”

Oscar doesn’t answer, but as Esteban disappears down the hall, he glances once more at the broadcast, at the bright papaya flashes and the grin he knows too well and can’t help but smile despite himself.

…

Later that afternoon, the orange blur of shirts and flags sweeps through the fan zones, the buzz of the Dutch crowd bleeding faintly through the glass walls of the McLaren hospitality. Inside, everything feels calmer, almost too calm, the low hum of conversation a flimsy cover for how fast Oscar’s thoughts are running.

He sits with Lando in one of the smaller booths off to the side, tucked between the sleek McLaren branding and the soft glow of screens showing highlight reels from practice. Lando has his feet up on the seat, his toes digging into Oscar’s thighs. They’re both half curled around their phones, the table between them littered with empty paper cups and a forgotten bowl of grapes.

Everywhere Oscar looks online, his name blares back at him.

‘PIASTRI CONFIRMED AT MCLAREN FOR 2026’

‘Norris & Piastri: McLaren’s Brightest Future Yet’

‘Fans react: “Lando’s found his match.”’

It doesn’t feel real. His stomach flips every time he reads the words, and even when he tries to smile, it doesn’t quite sit right.

Lando’s the first to break the silence, voice casual but eyes flicking across the screen. “They’re already calling you my prodigy,” he says, a grin tugging at his mouth.

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously true,” Lando shoots back, leaning back in the booth with mock arrogance. “Guess that makes me your mentor now. I should probably start charging for my wisdom.”

“Assuming you have any,” Oscar says, dryly, though the banter eases some of the tension that’s been twisting in his chest since morning.

“Rude,” Lando mutters, pretending to be offended. He scrolls further, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh god, look at this one.”

He tilts his phone toward Oscar, a fan edit of them spliced together with slow-mo race clips and dramatic music. The caption reads, ‘The future of papaya is here.’

Oscar groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Please tell me that wasn’t a ship name in the captions.”

“‘Hashtag Landoscar,’” Lando reads, laughing. “You’re doomed.”

“Fantastic,” Oscar says flatly, though a faint smile sneaks through. He reaches for his drink to hide it.

It’s easy for a moment, just laughter and teasing and the low thrum of comfort that comes naturally between them now. But then Oscar’s phone buzzes, cutting through everything. The screen lights up with Mark Webber.

His pulse jumps. He answers quickly, sitting straighter. “Hey, Mark.”

“Oscar,” Mark says, tone brisk, steady but edged with something sharper underneath. “You’ve seen the announcement, I assume.”

“Yeah. Kind of hard not to, it’s everywhere.”

Mark exhales, the sound heavy through the line. “Right. I just wanted to give you the heads up, Alpine’s furious. They’re claiming breach of contract and threatening legal action.”

Oscar blinks, the words tumbling over themselves before they register. “What? But… we went through everything, legal cleared it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar sees Lando look up from his phone, watching him with furrowed brows.

“I know,” Mark says firmly. “McLaren’s team handled it perfectly. This is just noise. Alpine just wants to save face, make it look like they’re fighting back. Don’t panic okay, let us handle it. You did everything by the book.”

Oscar swallows, staring blankly at the table in front of him. “Are they actually going to…”

“They’ll posture,” Mark cuts in. “Then they’ll back off. I just didn’t want you blindsided if something leaks or the media twists it. You’re fine, Oscar. You’ve done nothing wrong.” His voice softens then, calm and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard for this. Don’t let them steal that from you.”

When the call ends, Oscar lets the phone fall against the table, the sound sharp in the quiet. His pulse is pounding in his ears. The thrill that had carried him all morning drains out, replaced by the heavy, cold thud of dread.

Lando’s already watching him, brows furrowed. “What happened?”

“Alpine,” Oscar says quietly. “They’re saying I broke my contract. Mark says they’re threatening to take legal action.”

Lando leans forward instantly, resting one forearm on the table. “You didn’t. We know you didn’t.”

“I know, I just…” Oscar drags a hand through his hair, frustration edging into his voice. “I don’t want this to blow up. I don’t want it to look like I’ve done something wrong.”

“Hey,” Lando reaches out, his hand finding Oscar’s without hesitation. His grip is firm, grounding. “We’ll sort it. You’re with us now, okay? You’re ours.”

Oscar looks up, startled by the certainty in his tone. “Ours?”

Lando grins faintly. “McLaren’s, I mean. You know what I meant.”

Oscar smiles weakly. The door opens behind them then, and Zac Brown strides in with the same purposeful energy he always has, phone still pressed to his ear. His voice is low, clipped and unmistakenly sharp. It’s clear he’s dealing with something serious.

Lando’s leg starts bouncing restlessly, vibrations shooting through Oscar’s thigh where Lando had dug his toes under. Zac’s muffled words come bleeding through. He can’t make out everything, but he catches enough, “… Legal… breach of contract… not backing down…”

Oscar’s stomach twists. He sits forward slightly, elbows braced on the table, eyes following Zac’s every movement. A sick feeling in his stomach flaring.

“Osc?” Lando squeezes his hand.

Oscar looks over at him. “That doesn’t look good Lando.”

Lando glances at him, trying for reassurance but not quite pulling it off. “It’s probably just the lawyers talking. You know Zac… he likes to sound scary.”

“Yeah,” Oscar gives a faint humourless laugh. “Well, it’s working.”

Zac stops pacing, one hand raking through his hair, and mutters something sharp enough that it gets the attention of more people scattered around.

Lando lets out a breath, gaze flicking back to Oscar. “He wouldn’t be this fired up if it wasn’t worth fighting for,” he says softly. “They’re fighting for you Osc.”

Oscar looks at him, unsure how reply. The idea that someone like Zac Brown, CEO of McLaren, would go to bat for him like this feels too big, too unreal. He swallows hard, voice low. “What if I turn out to be too much trouble?”

Lando shakes his hand, eyes steady. “You’re not trouble. You’re the future of this team. They know that.”

Before Oscar can respond, Zac ends the call with a loud exhale. He looks up and notices them. They automatically untangle their hands as Zac heads straight to them.

“Guess we’re about to find out,” Lando mutters under his breath.

“Oscar, Lando,” Zac says, sliding into the seat opposite them. “Have you spoken with Mark yet?”

“Yeah, he just called,” Oscar answers.

“I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry. Alpine’s just blowing smoke. Legal’s handling everything so don’t give it another thought.” Zac’s voice is calm, confident, the kind that fills a room and smooths out tension by sheer presence.

Oscar hesitates. “But they’re saying I breached my contract…”

“They can say whatever they like,” Zac cuts in, his smile reassuring. “You’re a McLaren driver now. I don’t plan on that changing anytime soon. We’ll take care of the rest.” He pauses, his tone softening as his eyes land on Oscar. “You’re worth the fight, Oscar. You’ve proved that already.”

Oscar exhales slowly, the words sinking in even as the anxiety lingers like a shadow. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Zac gives his shoulder a firm pat before standing again. “Now, try not to read the comments. Trust me, you’ll regret it.” He winks and disappears back toward the hallway.

When the door closes, the silence between them stretches again.

Lando grabs his hand again, thumb tracing light circles against Oscar’s knuckles, but his smile, when Oscar looks up, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You good?” Lando asks softly.

“Yeah,” Oscar says, but it comes out quieter than he means it to. He tries to believe it, he really does.

Lando gives his hand one last squeeze before pulling away, leaning back with a small exhale. “Good. Because we’re in this together now.”

Oscar nods, but the knot in his chest doesn’t loosen. He watches Lando’s easy posture, the way he seems to carry the world like it’s light, and tells himself that if Lando isn’t worried, maybe he doesn’t need to be either.

Still, as they sit side by side scrolling through the flood of news again, the bright glow of papaya orange and praise blurring past their screens, Oscar can’t shake the feeling that somewhere underneath all this noise, a storm’s already building.

…

Lando wins in Zandvoort after a chaotic race with three yellows flags. Monza follows the week later with a Max win but an extremely unexpected Ferrari second place that dominates every headline, Monza painted red and deafening, leaving Lando’s quiet third place almost invisible by comparison. Oscar watches the race from his apartment, legs curled beneath him, the dull ache in his chest blooming every time the camera lingers on Lando standing on that third step of the podium.

Oscar’s contract situation has gone silent. No calls from Mark, no legal updates from McLaren. Not even a rumour. That silence gnaws at him. He doesn’t know if it means everything’s fine, or if the whole thing is just one bad headline away from exploding again. When he lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he keeps replaying Zac’s words ‘You’re worth the fight, Oscar,’ and wondering if he truly is.

But then Lando texts. ‘Dinner at Mum and Dad’s next week? You’re still coming, right?’

It’s a simple message, but Oscar stares at it far longer than he should. Shit, with everything that has happened with his contract, he had completely forgotten about Lando’s invite to join the Norris’ for dinner. He hesitates slightly before typing back. ‘Yeah I am.’

By the time the weekend off before Baku rolls around, Oscar’s nerves are constant, a low thrum beneath his ribs that not even Lando’s teasing voice notes can soften. He knows meeting the Norris family is important. It’s not just a family dinner, it’s the dinner. The kind that feels like a quiet marker, the next step, something that anchors their private little world into something real.

When Lando pulls up outside his apartment, the McLaren company car gleams obnoxiously against the grey curb. He’s out of the driver’s seat before Oscar’s even reached the door, grinning wide, curls messy, wearing a navy hoodie that looks too soft for someone about to throw their boyfriend to the wolves.

“You ready?” Lando asks, bouncing slightly on his feet.

Oscar laughs nervously, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Define ready.”

“I’ll take that as a no then,” Lando says, smiling softly. “You’ll be okay Osc, they’ll love you.”

“You don’t know that,” Oscar insists, but it’s half hearted.

“I do,” Lando says simply, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s cheek before heading for the car. “I mean, I’m clearly their favourite child, and I like you, so… simple maths.”

Oscar groans, rolling his eyes as he follows. “That’s not how that works.”

“Worked for me so far,” Lando says with a wink.

The two hour drive to Bristol goes by with music and soft laughter. Lando sings terribly to the radio, drumming on the steering wheel, Oscar teases him for every wrong note, though the sound of it steadies his nerves. He watches the countryside roll past, fields fading into soft gold, trees bending under the weight of early autumn, and tries not to think about how his palms are sweating.

The Norris house sits on a gentle rise, a picture of warmth with the lights glowing through the wide windows. The car slows to a stop at the end of the long driveway, the soft crunch beneath the tyres impossibly loud in the quiet evening air.

Oscar feels the nerves hit full force, his hands are tight fists on his knees, heart thrumming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Breathe Osc,” Lando says gently from the driver’s seat, putting the car into park and turning the engine off. When Oscar doesn’t respond, Lando turns toward him fully, his expression is gentle. “Hey.”

Oscar forces a shaky breath. “I’m fine.”

Lando’s mouth lifts. “You’re not, but that’s alright.”

Oscar huffs a laugh despite himself. “What if they don’t like me?”

“They will,” Lando says immediately, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “They already know you make me happy. That’s half the work done.”

Oscar glances at him, unsure. “Yeah, but…”

Lando cuts him off by reaching over the centre console and taking both Oscar’s hands in his. His fingers are warm, steady, thumbs tracing over his knuckles until the tightness in his chest starts to ease. “They’re going to love you,” Lando says quietly, all sincerity. “And if they don’t, we leave. Simple.”

Oscar laughs softly, a nervous, disbelieving sound. “You’d really walk out of dinner with your family?”

“Yeah,” Lando murmurs, leaning closer. “Don’t tell them, but you’re kind of my favourite.”

Before Oscar can roll his eyes, Lando’s lips are on his, soft and grounding. The kiss is brief, but it’s enough. The world quiets, the noise in Oscar’s head fading into nothing but the warmth of Lando’s lips on his.

When they part, Lando’s smile is easy again. “There, now you’re ready.”

Oscar shakes his head, but he’s smiling too, the panic easing into something almost manageable. “Okay,” he exhales deeply. “Let’s do this.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lando says, hopping out of the car and circling to open Oscar’s door. “Let’s go introduce you as my boyfriend.”

Oscar’s heart stutters at that. He steps out, hands still faintly trembling, but when Lando threads their fingers together before leading him to the door, the fear starts to loosen its hold.

When the door opens, chaos greets them. Cisca Jr and Flo are bickering loudly about who gets the first hug, Oliver’s voice cutting through with some teasing remark, and their parents, Cisca Sr and Adam, are somewhere behind, calling for calm that never comes.

Lando’s sisters descend first, practically dragging him inside.

“You must be Oscar!” Cisca Jr says, pulling him into a hug before he can react. “Finally, the mysterious Aussie we’ve heard about.”

“Mostly lies,” Lando calls over her shoulder.

“Mostly complaints,” Flo adds with a grin. “All affectionate ones, don’t worry.”

Oscar’s cheeks flush immediately. “That’s… reassuring.”

Oliver steps forward next, handshake firm and friendly. “Nice to meet you, mate. You’ve got your work cut out for you, dealing with him.”

“I’m starting to realise that,” Oscar says dryly, earning a chorus of laughter.

Then Cisca and Adam appear, warmth written in every line of their faces. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Oscar,” Cisca says, voice soft and kind.

“Thank you for having me,” Oscar manages, nerves prickling.

“Of course,” Adam says with a smile. “Lando’s told us a lot about you.”

“Yeah?” Oscar says, glancing at Lando, who’s pretending to inspect the wine rack.

“Only good things,” Cisca adds quickly.

Dinner is loud, comfortable in the way only family dinners can be. Conversation bounces across the table, tangling with laughter. Oscar sits beside Lando, their knees brushing under the table every few minutes, a quiet reminder that he’s not alone in this.

“So,” Flo says at one point, grinning mischievously, “how did you two even meet?”

Lando grins back, eyes flicking toward Oscar. “It was at the Aus GP.”

“You thought I was a fan,” Oscar grins as Lando groans, anticipating the incoming teasing from his siblings.

Flo bursts out laughing. “No way.”

“Yeah,” Oscar nods. “Asked me if I wanted an autograph, even though he’d just been asked a question about me in an interview.”

“In my defence, we hadn’t met before and you weren’t wearing any team gear,” Lando attempts to defend himself.

Cisca chuckles. “And that was the start of all this?”

Lando glances at Oscar again, softer now. “Pretty much,” he says, voice gentling. “Saw him again at the hotel that night, apologised, and somehow we ended up talking for a while.”

“Lucky mistake huh?” Adam jokes, raising his glass.

Lando meets Oscar’s eye again, grin crooked. “Best one I ever made.”

“Gross,” Cisca Jr groans.

“Oi!” Lando throws a bread roll across the table.

The table erupts in laughter, even Cisca trying to stifle hers behind a napkin.

Dinner continues in waves of teasing and stories, everyone talking over each other. But then, between dessert and coffee, Cisca Jr smirks and says, “It’s just weird, you know, that you’re dating someone younger than me, Lan.”

The words aren’t cruel, but they hang for a beat too long.

Oscar feels the flush crawl up his neck. The air thickens, just slightly, laughter tapering into uncertainty.

Then Lando, calm and certain as always, smirks. “Yeah, well,” he says lightly, “Oscar’s a bit more mature than you lot.”

There’s half a beat of silence before laughter breaks again, the tension melting away. Still, Oscar doesn’t miss the look shared between Lando’s parents, quiet, protective, curious but not disapproving.

After dinner, when everyone scatters, some to tidy up, others to debate which movie to put on. Oscar lingers behind, drawn toward the wall lined with family photos. The hallway is dimly lit, the frames catching the soft glow from the sconces. It’s a timeline of Lando’s life, from chubby cheeked toddler grinning beside a sandcastle to teenage karting prodigy clutching his first trophy.

Oscar studies one of the middle frames, the one that catches his eye first. Lando’s about twelve, all knees and elbows, standing beside a kart that looks far too big for him. His helmet is under one arm, the other wrapped around a smiling Cisca. The grin on his face is bright and fearless, the kind that only comes before you’ve ever truly fallen.

He doesn’t hear Lando walk up until his voice breaks the quiet. “I still have that trophy somewhere,” he says, amusement colouring his tone.

Oscar turns, startled, and finds Lando beside him with a mug of coffee in hand, relaxed, easy in a way that makes the moment feel softer. “You look so young,” Oscar murmurs.

“I was,” Lando says, stepping closer. “That was in Genk. First time I beat a full grid of seniors. I thought I was untouchable for about a month after that.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “I can imagine.”

“Even took the trophy to school the next week for show and tell,” Lando laughs under his breath, setting the mug down on a side table so he can point at another frame, a candid one, clearly taken mid-celebration. A tiny version of Lando is standing on the top step of a karting podium, champagne bottle half his size in his hands, expression wild with joy.

“That one,” Lando says, “was the day I realised I loved winning more than anything else. Mum says I was unbearable for months after that. Apparently, I went around telling people I’d ‘made it.’”

Oscar laughs softly, warmth tugging at his chest. “And look at you now.”

Lando hums, eyes flicking over the wall. “Yeah. Feels like another lifetime.”

They move slowly down the line of frames until they reach more recent ones, McLaren podiums, magazine covers, the first championship photo with Lando holding up his WDC trophy. Oscar stops in front of it.

“That one still doesn’t feel real sometimes,” Lando says quietly. “I look at it and remember every time I thought I’d never get there. But…” he glances at Oscar, smile small but sincere, “it’s good to have proof.”

“These are the types of photos you need in your apartment in Monaco you know?”

Lando sighs, “I know. Next time you’re there, we’ll have to get them printed. Deal?”

“Deal,” Oscar says, turning back to the photos and studying the image, the glint of the trophy under the podium lights, the raw pride in Lando’s face. “You look proud.”

“I was,” Lando admits, then adds, “Still am. Just… proud of different things now.”

Oscar looks at him then, curious. “Like what?”

Lando shrugs, eyes still on the photo. “Like this,” he says simply. “You here. Me not totally screwing up the introductions tonight.”

Oscar’s throat tightens, surprised by how much it hits him. He swallows, trying to steady himself. “You did fine,” he says, voice soft.

Lando turns toward him fully, that small, crooked smile back. For a moment, they stand there in the soft hum of the house, surrounded by years of Lando’s life captured in still frames. It feels like being invited into something private, something he’s never shared with anyone else. And when Lando’s hand brushes his lightly, not quite holding but close enough to feel, Oscar realises maybe he belongs here more than he thought.

Oscar slips out onto the balcony a moment later, craving a bit of fresh air before they start the movie. The sky is stretched out above him in a bruised wash of purple and orange, the last of the sunset fading over the quiet countryside. He exhales slowly, leaning on the railing. The night hums with the soft sounds of laughter drifting from inside, Flo teasing Lando again about something, Adam joining in.

It’s warm, comfortable, but Oscar still feels a small knot of nerves sitting in his chest. Meeting the Norris family had been… a lot. Wonderful, mostly, but overwhelming in the kind of way that will make his stomach twist hours later when he overthinks everything.

The sliding door opens behind him. “You okay sweetheart?”

Oscar turns quickly to see Cisca step out, a gentle smile tugging at her mouth. She’s holding a glass of wine, hair pulled back, looking relaxed but sharp in that way mothers always seem to be, aware of everything.

“Just getting some air,” Oscar says quietly. “It’s… a bit warm inside.”

“Hmm,” she hums, joining him at the railing. “That, or my children have exhausted you.”

He lets out a small, nervous laugh. “A little of both, maybe.”

For a moment, they stand in silence, the faint chirp of crickets filling the pause. Then she says, almost casually, “You make him happy, you know.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. “I’m trying to,” he admits softly. “He makes me happy too.”

“I can tell.” She looks out at the darkening sky, voice even. “It’s… strange, seeing him like this. Not bad… just new. Lando’s always been very good at being surrounded by people, but for a long time, I think he was lonely.”

Oscar nods, unsure what to say, so he keeps quiet.

Then Cisca turns to face him, expression still gentle but more direct. “I’ll be honest, when I first heard about you, I worried.”

His stomach drops. “Worried?”

“It’s what mothers do,” she says lightly, taking a small sip of wine. “I didn’t know you. All I heard was that Lando was seeing someone younger, someone from the paddock, and my mind did what all mothers’ minds do.”

Oscar swallows. “You thought…”

She gives a small, knowing nod. “That maybe you were after his money. His name. His career. Something like that.”

Oscar blinks, caught between wanting to disappear and understanding completely. “I get it,” he says quietly after a moment. “I’d probably think the same thing if I were you.”

Cisca watches him for a long moment before she smiles, soft and genuine. “But then I met you. You’re polite, kind, a little shy, maybe, but not fake. I’ve seen people who are with Lando for what he can do for them, it’s always obvious in their eyes. I don’t see that in you.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight, a mix of relief and emotion he hadn’t expected. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“I had to say it,” she continues. “Because it’s normal for a Mum to worry, but it’s also fair to admit when she’s wrong. And I was wrong about you.”

He exhales shakily, looking down at his hands gripping the railing. “I really care about him,” he says, the words small but certain. “I’d never… I mean, I’m not…”

She touches his arm lightly, cutting him off. “I know. And that’s all I needed to hear.”

For a moment, they just stand there again, the night breeze cool against their skin.

Cisca tilts her head, her tone softening even more. “He’s a good boy. Sensitive, though he hides it well. And this world can chew people up. You both need to look after each other.”

Oscar nods, voice barely above a whisper. “We do.”

Cisca smiles, satisfied, and pats his arm before turning back toward the house. “Good. Then I’ll stop worrying, for now.” She winks as she slides the door open again. “Come inside, before Flo finishes off the dessert.”

Oscar stays there for a moment after she goes, staring out into the quiet garden. His chest feels warm, heavy in a different kind of way, not nerves this time, but something gentler.

When he finally goes back inside, Lando looks up from the couch, eyes finding him instantly. “You okay?” he asks softly.

Oscar nods, smiling faintly. “Yeah. Your mum’s great.”

Lando grins. “Told you she’d like you.”

Oscar doesn’t answer, but his smile lingers. This time, he believes it.

When they leave later that night, the goodbyes stretch longer than they should. Cisca hugs him, Oliver claps him on the back, Flo and Cisca Jr joke that next time they’re in the paddock, they expect him to come find them.

“Come by anytime,” Cisca says warmly as they step into the night. “You’re part of the family now.”

In the car, the silence feels content. Lando’s fingers find his over the console, intertwining them.

“So,” Lando says softly, glancing sideways. “You had a good time?”

Oscar smiles, turning his head to meet Lando’s gaze. “Yeah. I really like your family.”

“They liked you too,” Lando says, the grin that spreads across his face genuine and boyish. “Told you they would.”

Oscar laughs quietly, leaning back against the seat, watching the dark countryside blur past. The knot of nerves that had sat in his chest for weeks has finally started to ease. For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything is falling into place.

Chapter Text

The Baku weekend is chaos from the moment Oscar sets foot in the paddock. He feels it before he even hears it, the static tension in the air, the way people glance up when he walks by, the low buzz of gossip curling through every corner of the paddock. Every screen he passes blares the same headline, the same looping clips. Alpine had finally dropped their counter statement overnight, and now it’s everywhere.

“We are extremely disappointed with Oscar Piastri’s decision to disregard his contractual obligations.”

“This is not how we conduct business.”

“He owes it to the team that raised him to honour his commitments.”

Their team principal’s face fills every broadcast, jaw clenched, eyes sharp, voice clipped and cold. Media outlets, that only a couple of months ago when the news of Alpine signing Colapinto over him, were calling it the ‘mistake of the year’ and questioning whether Alpine had let Oscar ‘slip through their fingers’, were now calling it ‘the betrayal of the year,’ and calling Oscar things like ‘disloyal, ungrateful, immature.’ The word ‘snake’ is trending by the time he reaches the circuit.

And McLaren’s response, though polished and diplomatic, feels like a band aid over a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“We are delighted to confirm Oscar Piastri as a McLaren driver for 2026. All contractual matters have been handled through the appropriate legal channels,” Zac Brown’s voice booms over one of the broadcasts.

Every channel, every feed, every journalist repeats it. Over and over.

When Oscar enters the Alpine hospitality, the atmosphere is ice cold. Conversations pause when he walks through the door. A few mechanics he’s worked closely with offer small smiles, hesitant, but don’t engage and eventually just look away.

Oscar’s quickly flagged down by one of the HR managers and is shuffled into one of the meeting rooms. The air inside feels too still, too heavy. Oscar’s unsure where to look first, the long polished table, the blinds drawn against the morning light, or the cluster of senior faces watching him with unreadable expressions.

There’s a seat waiting for him halfway down the table. He takes it because he doesn’t know what else to do. The door clicks shut behind him, sounding final.

The team principal clears his throat. “Oscar, thank you for coming on short notice. We’ll get straight to it.”

Oscar’s stomach twists. His hands curl around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “What’s going on?”

The head of legal folds her hands neatly on a folder in front of her. “We’ve made an executive decision to lodge an appeal with the FIA,” she says, tone measured, detached. “Against both McLaren and yourself.”

Oscar stares blankly for a beat, waiting for the rest of the sentence, waiting for the part where this makes sense. “An appeal?” His voice comes out smaller than he intends. “What kind of appeal?”

“Regarding your contract situation,” she continues. “There are serious questions about the validity of your agreement with McLaren while still under obligation to Alpine.”

He blinks. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He knows he should say something, that Mark should be here, that this isn’t how these things are supposed to go, but the words feel stuck, thick in his throat.

Another voice, this one from HR, cuts in smoothly. “We wanted to speak to you directly before the news spreads. As a professional courtesy.”

Oscar lets out a small, disbelieving laugh that immediately dies in the quiet room. “A courtesy,” he repeats. “Without my manager. Or legal representation.”

“You’ll all be contacted through official channels shortly,” the head of legal replies, her tone cool, clipped. “This meeting is purely to inform you of Alpine’s position.”

He nods because he doesn’t know what else to do. His heart hammers in his chest, and every instinct tells him this isn’t right, that he should stand up and leave. But his body stays rooted to the chair, shoulders tight, throat dry.

The team principal leans forward. “Given the tension this has caused within the team, we’ve made the decision to bench you. Effective immediately.”

Oscar’s head jerks up. “What?”

“We can’t have someone representing Alpine while an active dispute involving the FIA is underway,” HR explains, tone clinical, almost kind. “It creates an image problem, and frankly, a trust issue. We need unity, not division.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says quietly. It’s all he can manage.

“You’ve created a very difficult environment,” the principal says. “There’s chatter in the garage, uncertainty among the engineers. This has to be addressed before you can resume duties.”

He wants to protest, to tell them he’s been nothing but loyal, that he’s still shown up, still driven, still smiled for cameras when all he wanted to do was scream. The words form in his mind but refuse to make it to his tongue. His throat burns.

“Until the appeal is resolved,” the legal head continues, “you won’t be taking part in any further simulator sessions, on-track testing, media duties, or team events. You’ll remain on full pay, of course, but you’re expected to maintain professionalism.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods again, because fighting feels useless when the decision’s already been made. “Okay,” he says finally, voice thin. “If that’s what you think is best.”

There’s a pause, the faint shuffle of papers, the click of a pen. No one meets his eyes. “It is. Your cooperation will noted Oscar.”

He stands, trying to keep his movements steady even though his legs feel unsteady. “I’ll wait for you to be in touch with Mark and our lawyer,” he says softly.

No one replies.

He leaves the room to the sound of quiet, polite murmuring behind him, the kind of sound that happens after the hard part is done, when people can move on.

In the corridor, he stops and presses a hand to his chest. His breathing is shallow, uneven. He feels like he’s been thrown out of his own life, his own team, without ever being given a chance to speak. He should call Mark, he should do something, but for a long moment, all he can do is stand there, staring at his reflection in the darkened window, at the same Alpine branded shirts he’s been wearing the past two and a half years, the same polished smile he’s perfected. And for a moment he doesn’t recognise the person staring back at him.

Outside, the noise is worse. Reporters swarm, microphones and cameras thrust forward, every question like a jab.

“Oscar, is it true you broke your contract with Alpine?”

“Oscar, why McLaren? Did they offer you more money?”

“Do you have anything to say to your fans at Alpine?”

“Is this all part of a bigger plan with Lando Norris?”

He keeps his head down, feet unconsciously taking him in the direction of McLaren’s hospitality, muttering “no comment” until the words start to lose meaning.

He spots Lando as soon as he enters McLaren’s hospitality, head bent toward an engineer, sleeves rolled up, one hand gesturing as he talks. He looks like he always does, focused, alive, light catching in his hair. It’s such a normal sight that Oscar almost turns around and leaves.

But then Lando looks up and sees him. “Hey,” he says brightly, that usual grin flickering to life. “Didn’t know you were…”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Oscar’s body moves before his brain can stop it. He takes two steps forward and then just… breaks. The tears he’s been holding back since Alpine hit him like a flood, and suddenly his arm are wrapped around Lando’s waist, head pressed to his chest, shoulders shaking.

“Whoa… hey, hey, Osc… what’s wrong?” Lando’s voice softens instantly. He wraps his arms around him without hesitation, one hand rubbing circles into the middle of his back. His eyes flick briefly to the engineer in confusion before he nods them away. “Come on, mate, let’s get you out of here.”

He guides Oscar down the hallway to his driver room, the quiet thud of the door closing behind them making the world feel smaller, safer. Lando eases him onto the couch and crouches in front of him. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice steady even though his brow is furrowed with worry. “What happened?”

Oscar tries to speak but the words tangle somewhere between his throat and his lungs. He drags a shaking hand over his face. “They benched me,” he finally gets out. “Alpine… they benched me.”

Lando blinks, confused. “What? Why?”

“They said I’m…” His voice cracks. He swallows hard, takes a shaky breath. “They said I’m untrustworthy. That I’ve made the team look bad. They’ve lodged an appeal with the FIA about me and McLaren. Said I can’t drive until it’s sorted.”

Lando stares at him, silent for a moment, trying to process it. “They’re what?”

Oscar laughs weakly, though it’s hollow and shaky. “Everyone’s calling me a snake Lando.” He presses his hands to his face. “I knew they were angry, but… I didn’t think they’d actually…” His voice splinters. “Everyone looked at me like I’d stabbed them in the back, like I ruined everything.”

Lando moves to sit beside him, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, hey, no. No, that’s not… that’s not fair.”

“I wanted to drive,” Oscar whispers. “That’s all I wanted. And now everyone hates me for it. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Lando shakes his head, pulling him a little closer. “You didn’t hurt anyone, Osc. They did this to themselves. They ignored you for months, left you waiting, and now that someone else saw your worth, they’re panicking. They’re scared because they lost you.”

Oscar’s breathing is still uneven, shallow. His voice trembles. “It doesn’t matter. The whole paddock will think I’m ungrateful, or arrogant. Or… or a liar.”

Lando lets out a long breath, thumb rubbing slow circles into Oscar’s shoulder. “You’re none of those things. You’re just someone who finally got what he deserves. Let them talk. The people who matter, they’ll know the truth.”

Oscar shakes his head, eyes glassy. “Feels like everyone’s watching me fall apart.”

Lando’s voice softens even more. “Then let them watch. You’ll get back up.”

There’s silence for a moment. Oscar’s breaths come steadier now, the trembling easing just slightly. Lando shifts to face him properly. “Listen,” he says, voice gentle but sure. “I’ll talk to Zac. Maybe we can get you doing some sim work here for now. Keep you sharp, yeah? Keep you out of your own head.”

Oscar looks up, surprised. “You’d do that?”

Lando gives a little grin. “Course. Knowing you, you’d probably waste away without it.”

That earns him the faintest smile from Oscar. It’s small and tired but real.

“That’s better,” Lando murmurs, brushing a stray tear from Oscar’s cheek.

Oscar lets out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Fall apart a little more dramatically, probably,” Lando teases softly. “But it’s fine. You’ve got me now. We’ll sort this.”

Oscar nods, his shoulders slumping as the tension finally starts to fade. “Thank you.”

“Always,” Lando says, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze lingers on Oscar’s, something tender flickering there, not the teasing, not the easy banter, just quiet understanding.

Lando hesitates, then leans forward, close enough that Oscar can feel the warmth of his breath. “Feel a bit better now?”

“Yeah,” Oscar whispers. “I do.”

“Good.” Lando’s thumb grazes along his jaw, eyes soft. “Because none of this is your fault.”

Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but the words never make it out. Lando closes the gap between them, kissing him slow, like it’s a promise more than anything else.

When they part, Oscar exhales against his lips, voice unsteady but lighter. “Thank you, Lando.”

Lando smiles, that small crooked grin that always seems to undo him. “Don’t thank me. I’m just keeping my lucky charm in one piece.”

Oscar laughs, wet and quiet, resting his forehead against Lando’s. For the first time that day, the ache in his chest eases, and he lets himself believe that maybe everything will be okay.

…

Lando does his best to keep him busy and distracted. He texts first thing in the morning, ‘Breakfast. Don’t argue’.When Oscar protests, Lando sends a photo of himself pouting exaggeratedly at a plate of pancakes and writes, ‘You wouldn’t let me eat alone, would you? That’s cruel.’

And when the weekend spirals into interviews and scrutiny and online noise, Lando is the one dragging him away from it.

Late night ice-cream dates that start with escaping from Lando’s trainer and bodyguard at the hotel, card game rematches with the engineers and mechanics, catch ups with anyone who can help break the constant pressure. Lando tells stories, makes dumb jokes, deliberately spills his drink once just to make Oscar laugh.

“You know people joke online that you don’t show many emotions, like you’ve got one emotion for every situation.” Lando says one night whilst pointing his fork at him, a grin on his face. “But I dunno, I think I can read you pretty well by now. So I know what that face means?”

Oscar blinks. “What face?”

“The ‘I’m spiralling internally but pretending I’m fine’ face.”

Oscar snorts. “I don’t have that face.”

“You absolutely do.” Lando grins, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve seen it enough to be an expert.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugs up, and that’s enough for Lando to look smug again. “What do you mean by you can read my face?”

“I mean, you probably know this, that you don’t have big reactions. Like you don’t have to smile or frown or whatever, but it’s all in the little things, like the way you breathe, or how your eyes move when you’re overthinking, or the way your cheeks go pink. You’re easier to read than you think, Osc.”

It catches Oscar off guard, the way Lando says it so easily, like it’s obvious, like it’s just something he’s learned without trying. Most people don’t even bother to look past the surface, they take his calm face, his quietness, and decide there’s nothing else there. It’s terrifying and comforting all at once, to be seen that clearly, that effortlessly. He doesn’t know what Lando’s done to make it feel safe instead of suffocating. Maybe it’s the way Lando never asks for more than he’s ready to give, never forces him to explain. Maybe it’s just Lando, loud, bright, impossible to ignore, choosing to look closer anyway.

Still, the noise surrounding him doesn’t stop. Every day brings new angles, new debates. ‘Alpine betrayed?’ ‘McLaren’s power move,’ ‘Piastri in the middle of F1’s biggest contract controversy.’

By Saturday, the tone shifts. The internet starts to romanticise it, the new McLaren pairing, the young prodigy learning from the veteran. ‘Rookie and mentor,’ ‘Golden boys of McLaren,’ ‘Protégé and hero.’

The photos make it worse. Lando slinging an arm over Oscar’s shoulders as they walk through the paddock. Oscar laughing at something Lando whispers as they pass on the grid. The world sees chemistry, they just have no idea how real it actually is.

…

Saturday’s post-qualifying press conference feels like ambush waiting to happen. Oscar’s fingers twitch nervously where he’s rested them on the table. He’s watching Lando on one the televisions in McLaren’s hospitality. Lando looks as calm as ever, one leg bouncing casually, expression open and charming.

The questions start predictably, asking Lando about Alpine’s statement, the legality of Oscar’s contract, McLaren’s response. Lando answers carefully, repeating the talking points that had been drilled into him in the PR meeting that morning, “I’m excited for the future. The situation is being handled through the proper channels.”

He’s halfway through an answer when a journalist at the back raises a hand, grin mischievous.

“You and Oscar seem closer than most of the current teammates already,” they say. “Should the rest of the grid be jealous?”

The room ripples with laughter.

Lando doesn’t miss a beat. He leans into the mic, flashing that easy grin. “Nah,” he says. “We just share the same brain cells, that’s all.”

The laughter grows louder, the moment easy and light on the surface. Oscar can feel the heat climbing up his neck as he watches, spreading to his ears. He ducks his head, fiddling with the notes in front of him, hoping no one around him notices how pink his face has gone.

Lando comes back from the press conference still buzzing with leftover adrenaline and irritation, the lanyard hanging loose around his neck. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, muttering under his breath as he drops his water bottle on the table Oscar’s occupying.

Oscar glances up from his phone. “You okay?”

Lando lets out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Assuming you watched the press conference?”

“Yeah,” Oscar nods. “I saw.”

“The you saw me get asked the hundred questions that had nothing to do with me driving. Was fantastic.”

Oscar winces. “Sorry. It's my fault they were asking you those questions.”

Lando turns to him immediately. “Hey, no, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Apologise like it’s your fault they’re idiots.” He presses his foot against Oscar’s under the table. “I told them to piss off, said you’ve earned your place, and the rest is none of their business.”

Oscar looks at him, unsure what to say. “You didn’t actually say that?”

Lando shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Maybe not in those exact words. PR would’ve strangled me if I had. But it was as close as I could with PR approved language.”

Oscar’s eyes soften, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, they were annoying as hell,” Lando grumbles, but there’s a faint flush under his tan. After a moment, the edge in his voice fades. “Anyway. What are you doing tonight?”

Oscar blinks. “I don’t know, probably just dinner at the hotel. Why?”

Lando drums his fingers on his knee, then blurts, “Come out with me, for dinner? Like… proper dinner. A date.”

“A date?” Oscar repeats, the word catching in his throat.

“Yeah,” Lando says, grinning now. “We haven’t had an official one in a while. Would be good to enjoy ourselves, just you and me.”

Oscar smiles, then nods. “Yeah okay, I’d like that.”

“Good,” Lando says, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “I’ll book somewhere nice.”

…

The restaurant Lando had picked is small, tucked away down in one of those winding streets just off the boulevard, the air smells of grilled lamb and sea salt. Lanterns hang from the awning, their amber light spilling across the cobblestones and the faint sound of love music drifts from somewhere further down the street.

Inside it’s cool and quiet compared to the sticky summer air outside. The walls are stone, worn smooth from years of heat and laughter, lined with photos of the Caspian at sunset and old Formula One posters that have yellowed with time. The tables are small, candles flickering in low glass holders.

Oscar pauses just inside the doorway, taking it all in, the dim gold light, the soft chatter, the sight of Lando looking pleased with himself as they move to sit down, a little smug even. Oscar feels a soft, fluttery happiness in his chest that he’s never really had before.

For the first ten minutes, everything is perfect. They talk easily, teasing and banter flowing through. Lando tells him what the best food to order on the menu is, insisting he knows because he’s cultured now, and Oscar laughs, resting his chin on his hand as he watches him. It’s relaxed, intimate. It feels like they’ve found a tiny pocket of peace after everything.

Until a too-familiar voice cuts through the quiet hum.

“Lando bloody Norris!”

Lando’s entire body goes rigid, his fork clatters against his plate. Oscar watches as Lando’s whole expression shift, from relaxed to tight-jawed in seconds. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t let it be them.”

Oscar turns just in time to see Charles, Max V, George, and Alex weaving through tables toward them, all bright smiles and loud greetings. Charles spots them first and waves cheerfully, Max following his gaze and automatically steering the others their way.

“Oh god,” Lando groans. “Why are they everywhere?”

Oscar laughs, though his pulse ticks up a little. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, this was supposed to be…”

But before he can finish, George claps a hand on his shoulder. “Lando! Mate, what are the odds?”

Lando forces a smile, voice strained. “Yeah, small city, apparently.”

Max glances around the restaurant at the empty table next to them. “Why don’t we just join you two?”

Charles catches Oscar’s eyes apologetically, “Uh Max…”

“Fantastic idea,” Alex jumps in and starts to drag over another table and extra chairs. Menu’s shuffled around and waitstaff looking on flustered.

“Actually, we’re kind of in the middle of…” Lando’s tries but Max is already dropping into the seat beside him, immediately flagging the waiter for beers.

Oscar’s chair is pushed closer to Lando’s. Finding himself caught between politeness and embarrassment, he leans into Lando slightly, murmuring quietly, “It’s fine, really.”

Lando turns to him, whispering sharping. “It’s not fine, this was supposed to be just us.”

“I know, but they don’t know that Lando. They don’t mean anything by it,” Oscar responds quietly, trying to keep his tone light, but his stomach twists, the tension humming under Lando’s voice feels unfamiliar.

“Yeah, well, they can go mean it somewhere else,” Lando grumbles, a little louder than he intends.

Alex looks up at that, one brow raised. “You okay mate?” he asks, half-amused.

Lando exhales through his nose, smile tight. “Peachy. Just love it when my dinner is turned into a show.”

Oscar kicks him lightly under the table. “Stop.”

Lando’s eyes flick to him, and for a moment, something softer slips through the irritation. “Fine,” he mutters, stabbing at a piece of bread. “But they’re paying.”

Alex grins, settling in. “Deal.”

Oscar sighs, the smallest smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He feels a nudge against his hand where is lays against his thigh, hidden under the table. He glances down, Lando’s fingers hovers near his. Oscar hesitates, uncertain if it was intentional, but when he looks up, Lando was staring straight ahead, pretending to listen to Charles. The faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Slowly, carefully, Lando shifts his hand, brushing against Oscar’s knuckles, deliberate this time. Oscar’s breath catches. He risks a glance around the table, no one was looking.

Then, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, Lando’s hand slips completely under the tablecloth and finds his. His fingers trace a line over Oscar’s palm before curling around it, lacing them together. The touch is sure, grounding. Lando gives his hand a small squeeze, thumb brushing over the back of Oscar’s hand, his voice steady as he jumps straight into conversation with the others like he hadn’t just caused Oscar’s heart to race.

It takes Oscar a few moments to remember how to breathe. He forces himself to focus on what is being said across the table, the others having settled into conversation and banter, when he catches movement from the other end of the table. Max.

He’s leaning back in his chair, one brow raised, eyes flicking between where Lando’s arm is resting a little too close to Oscar’s and the way their shoulders keep brushing. It’s subtle, but there’s no mistaking it, Max has noticed.

Oscar’s throat suddenly feels tight. He watches as Max’s gaze drops, following the line of their arms where they disappear under the table, and Oscar knows exactly what he’s assuming, that Lando’s hand is curled loosely around his, thumb brushing lazy circles against his skin.

Their eyes meet across the table, and Oscar freezes. Max doesn’t say anything. He just tilts his head slightly, a silent, knowing gesture that makes heat rush up Oscar’s neck.

Lando, completely unaware, is still talking to George about something to do with tyre strategy. Max’s gaze flicks from Oscar to Lando, back again, before one corner of his mouth twitches, amused. Then, slowly, he raises an eyebrow.

Oscar’s heart stutters. He wants to pull his hand back, but he can’t seem to move.

Max takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving them. It’s enough to make Oscar’s pulse jump, to make him realise how obvious this must look.

Lando finally notices the shift in the air, glances up, and catches Max’s expression. “What?” he says, defensive.

Max just hums, one brow still raised. “Nothing,” he says lightly, though his grin says otherwise.

Lando exhales, muttering under his breath, “Fuck off, what do want Max?”

Max leans forward, gaze still flickering between Lando and Oscar, then down to where their hands disappear beneath the tablecloth. His expression sharpens into something halfway between amusement and disbelief.

“You two are holding hands,” he says flatly, cutting through the chatter around them.

The table falls silent. Alex cuts off mid-sentence, Charles looks up from his plate, and George pauses mid-sip. Oscar feels every muscle in his body seize. Lando’s hand tightens around his instinctively, hidden but now suddenly heavy, obvious. He doesn’t let go though.

Lando blinks, trying to act casual. “What?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You heard me. You’re holding hands. So… what? Are you two screwing each other now?”

Oscar chokes on his drink, coughing hard enough that Charles has to thump him on he back. The entire table goes quiet before George blurts out, “Mate!” and Alex nearly snorts his drink.

Lando shoots Max a glare so sharp it could cut through steel. “What the fuck Max?”

“What?” Max says, shrugging, perfectly unbothered. “I’m just asking the question everyone’s thinking.”

“No one was thinking that!” Lando fires back, cheeks pink now for the first time all evening.

Oscar’s mortified. His ears are burning, and he’s suddenly very aware of Lando’s hand still holding his under the table. He goes to remove his hand from Lando’s grip, but Lando just tightens his grip not letting Oscar move away.

“None of your business Max,” Lando shoots him a warning looks that says don’t engage. “You done Verstappen?”

Max leas back, raising both hands in surrender, grin widening. “Alright, alright. Just making conversation.”

“Some conversation,” Lando mutters.

“Despite Max’s blunt and unhinged way of asking,” George cuts in. “If there is something going on between the two of you, you can tell us you know? You can trust us.”

“Yeah,” Alex adds. “We would all be happy for you both.”

Lando’s glare flicks from Max back to Oscar, jaw still tight. The question hangs heavy in the air, the whole table waiting. Oscar can feel every pair of eyes on them, a strange mix of amusement and curiosity, but all he can focus on is Lando.

He feels Lando’s fingers twitch, it’s that hesitation, that split second of uncertainty, that makes Oscar’s chest ache. He doesn’t want Lando to feel like he has to choose between being honest or protecting him. He doesn’t want Lando to think this, them, is something to be embarrassed about.

Oscar draws a slow breath, heart hammering, and gives a small nod. It’s subtle, but Lando catches it immediately. The look in his eyes softens, the tension in his shoulders easing. Oscar’s pulse roars in his ears, a swirl of nerves and quiet defiance settling through him. It’s fine, he thinks. Let them know, let them all know.

Lando exhales, sits up a little straighter, and says, “Yeah. We’re together.”

There’s a beat of silence before Charles grins, Alex whistles low, and George nearly spits out his drink. Max just smirks, leaning back like he’s won a competition no one else was aware they were playing.

Oscar feels his face heat, but he doesn’t look away. He keeps his gaze fixed on Lando, the tiny smirk playing on his lips, the pride hidden in the tilt of his chin, and, for the first time all night, he lets himself breathe.

The table comes alive again after Lando’s words, everyone talking at once, laughter and disbelief overlapping. Charles leans forward first, grinning like he’s been waiting months for this. “So happy for you two.”

“About bloody time!” Alex practically shouts.

Lando narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alex shrugs, smug. “You act like you’re subtle, but you’re not. Every time Oscar walked into a room, you’d light up like a Christmas tree.”

George laughs. “That’s true, mate. It’s been painfully obvious.”

Lando groans and drops his head into his hands. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hold on,” Alex cuts in, waving his fork. “So how long’s this been going on for? Like, officially?”

Lando rubs at the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish for the first time all night. “Uh… officially? Since Spa.”

George snorts. “So that’s why you were smiling like an idiot after the race even though you’d just crashed out.”

Lando flops his head into Oscar’s shoulder, groaning as he does so. The others happily finding amusement in his misfortune.

Alex smirks. “So who made the first move?”

Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but Lando beats him to it with a smug grin. “Me.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, finding a little bit of confidence from the positive reactions from the others. “You kissed me first, but you definitely didn’t make the first move when it came to making things official.”

“Still counts,” Lando says, nudging his knee under the table.

The others laugh, the tension from earlier momentarily easing. Alex raises his glass. “You’ve officially broken the record for least subtle grid secret, then.”

George shakes his head in amusement. “Wait, has anyone met the parents yet? That’s when it’s really official.”

Oscar shifts a little, smiling despite himself. “I’ve met Lando’s family.”

“Oh?” Charles raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“They were lovely,” Oscar says truthfully, glancing at Lando. “His Mum made me feel like part of the family right away.”

Lando grins, clearly pleased. “She loved him.”

“What about your family, mate?” George asks. “Have you introduced him yet?”

Lando opens his mouth, but Oscar jumps in first. “Uh, not yet, bit hard when they’re in Australia. But Mum knows,” he admits, feeling his face heat.

Lando blinks. “She does?”

Oscar gives him a small, teasing look. “Yeah. She’s happy for me.”

The grin that spreads across Lando’s face is unfiltered, soft around the edges. “Well, that’s good to know. I was starting to think she might hate me on principle.”

“She might after she realises what she’ll read about you online,” Oscar says dryly, and that earns another round of laughter.

Alex clinks his glass against Lando’s. “To the happy couple, then. God help us all.”

Lando chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re just jealous.”

George raises an eyebrow. “Jealous of what, exactly?”

Lando leans back with a smirk. “That I’m dating someone better looking and faster than any of you.”

Oscar elbows him in the ribs, but his grin gives him away.

“Alright, alright,” Lando says finally, half exasperated, half amused. “No more interrogation. It’s not that deep.”

“Lando,” Alex says with a grin, “it’s exactly that deep.”

Lando throws a napkin at him while the rest of the table breaks into laughter, Oscar shaking his head but smiling, his heart quietly, stupidly full.

Lando leans back in his chair once the laughter dies down, eyes narrowing playfully at Charles. “Hang on,” he says, pointing his fork at him. “You’re acting way too smug about this. Why aren’t you surprised?”

Charles lifts his wine glass, trying and failing to hide the smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because I already knew,” he says simply.

Lando’s jaw drops. “You what?”

The table erupts again, George nearly choking on his drink, Alex laughing openly. “Of course he did,” George says between coughs. “Of course Charles bloody Leclerc knew.”

“Mate, what the hell?” Lando asks, eyes darting between Charles and Oscar. “How?”

Oscar’s face goes bright red. He stammers, “I, um… might’ve told him.”

“Told him?” Lando repeats, incredulous. “When?”

“Back at Spa,” Oscar admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I just… I didn’t know what to do at the time and Charles had kind of guessed that I’d liked you for a while.”

Lando’s expression shifts into something softer. “So you went to him for advice?”

Charles sets down his glass, unbothered. “I give very good advice,” he says. “And look, it worked, didn’t it?”

Oscar groans. “I didn’t think it would actually come up at dinner.”

“Oh, come on,” George says, grinning. “This is priceless.”

Charles smirks over his drink. “For what it’s worth, I’m very proud of you both. I told him to just talk to you… that you’d probably be a disaster about it, but a sincere one.”

Lando laughs, shaking his head. “That’s… actually pretty accurate.”

Alex leans in, eyes bright. “So you were giving Oscar dating advice about Lando without Lando knowing?”

Charles nods like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yes.”

Lando groans, dropping his head into his hands. “This is ridiculous.”

Oscar tries to fight a smile but fails, cheeks still pink. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

Lando looks up at him, grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You told Charles you liked me?”

Oscar shrugs, small and sheepish. “Yeah.”

Something in Lando’s chest softens at that. The noise of the table fades just a little, leaving the two of them caught in the middle of it, and for a second, it feels like it’s just them again, exactly like it always is.

Charles watches them, the hint of a knowing smile still lingering, and murmurs, “Well, you owe me a thank you, Norris.”

Lando shoots him a look but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, yeah. Cheers, Cupid.”

The air at the table shifts once Max sets down his drink, making a loud clinking sound echo slightly. Oscar realises that Max has been quiet this entire time and doesn’t like the nerves that suddenly erupt in his stomach.

Max’s eyes are flicking between the two of them. “Look,” he finally says, tone measured but firm, “I’m happy for you both, really. But… aren’t you worried this might get complicated next year?”

Lando stiffens. “Complicated how?”

Max glances briefly at Oscar. “You’re teammates. Teammates fight for points, for upgrades, for strategy calls. It’s easy now, when he’s still a reserve driver at Alpine, but next year? It’s going to be different. You both know that.”

Oscar’s stomach twists. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone said it out loud, the thing that’s been lurking at the back of his own thoughts since the contract was signed.

George nods slowly. “He’s not wrong, mate. You’ll be up against each other every week. It’s not exactly easy to keep things separate.”

Lando scoffs, leaning back. “You lot make it sound like we haven’t thought about that already.”

Alex lifts his hands in defence. “No one’s saying you haven’t, we’re just saying it’s not simple.”

“It’s never simple,” Max says, voice even. “This sport doesn’t let it be. And the media’s already all over your connection, imagine what they’ll do when they find out you’re together.”

Lando’s jaw tightens. “They’re not going to find out,” he says almost like a warning.

“We’re not going to say anything Lando,” Charles says softly. “We wouldn’t do that.”

“But even you know that the media has a way of finding even the smallest things out,” George adds sincerely.

“So what? You think we should just call it off?” Lando snaps,

Max sighs, rubbing at his temple. “No. What I’m saying is you need to be smart. You can’t afford distractions, Lando. Neither of you can.”

The table goes quiet for a moment. Oscar stares down at his plate, pushing a piece of pasta with his fork, throat tight. Distraction, right. The word burns. He knows Max doesn’t mean it cruelly, but it still hits somewhere deep.

He can feel the weight of the conversation pressing in, the future, the scrutiny, the worry that maybe Max is right. What if he does ruin things for Lando? What if he is nothing but a distraction for Lando? What if this relationship becomes the thing people use to question his career before it even begins?

Lando’s voice breaks through, sharp and defensive. “You don’t get to talk like you know what this is. You haven’t seen what he’s gone through, what Alpine put him through. You don’t get to act like I haven’t thought about it.”

“Lando,” Charles cuts in quietly, hand half raised. “Come on, don’t do this here.”

But Lando’s already leaning forward, the words spilling faster now. “You think I’d risk everything for a fling? You think I’d bring him into this if I didn’t mean it?”

Max looks up, calm but firm. “I think you’d do anything to protect him, and that’s exactly what worries me.”

The silence that follows feels heavy.

Oscar keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, shoulders tense. He can feel everyone’s eyes flicking between the two of them. He hates this, hates that his presence, his relationship with Lando, is the reason they’re arguing.

Charles finally steps in properly, voice low but steady. “Enough. Max, you’ve made your point. Lando, let it go.”

Lando exhales hard, jaw clenched. He sits back, the storm still in his eyes but contained for now. “Fine.”

The rest of the meal carries on in uneasy quiet, conversations muted, forks scraping against plates.

Oscar stays quiet, lost in his own thoughts. The pride he’d felt earlier, watching Lando hold his hand under the table, hearing him say we’re together, now feels fragile, like glass about to crack.

He doesn’t doubt Lando’s feelings, not for a second. But as he glances at him, the way Lando’s trying to act fine, the faint crease between his brows, Oscar can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, Max is right.

No one says anything as they finish up, the air feeling thick and sour. Lando’s laughter, so easy and constant before, never quite returns. Charles gives up trying to lighten the mood, and by the time the bill comes, everyone looks ready to leave.

Outside, the night air is heavy with the smell of petrol and summer heat, the city alive around them in a blur of noise and headlights. Lando keeps his head down as they separate from the others and walk back toward the hotel, hands shoved deep in his pockets, steps brisk. Oscar trails a little behind, his own mind whirring, words sitting uselessly on his tongue.

He finally catches up, brushing his arm lightly against Lando’s. “Are you okay?”

Lando exhales sharply, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to press the frustration out of himself. “Can we not do this now?” His voice isn’t angry, just tired. “Headache.”

Oscar falters. He wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know which question to start with. Are you upset with me? Was Max right? Are we okay? They all tangle in his throat, stuck behind hesitation.

Before he can decide, Lando glances at him and smiles, that easy, practiced curve of his mouth that he wears for the cameras.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly. “I’m fine.”

But Oscar knows that smile. He’s seen it a hundred times in interviews when things aren’t fine at all. It’s the smile Lando uses to deflect, to bury what’s really going on.

The streetlights cast gold shadows over them as they walk. Lando’s shoulders stay tense, his hands deep in his pockets, jaw set even though his voice is calm. Oscar walks beside him, heart beating too fast, every step thick with unease.

He tells himself it’s just exhaustion, the race weekend, the media, the endless noise around them. But the distance between them feels different tonight, like something invisible has settled there.

When they reach the hotel, Lando opens the door for him, his tone careful and neutral. “You coming up?”

Oscar nods, forcing a small smile. “Yeah.”

He follows him inside, the sound of their shoes echoing against the marble floor. Lando doesn’t reach for his hand like he usually does, and Oscar doesn’t know if he should.

He said it’s just a headache, Oscar reminds himself, trying to steady his breathing. But the thought still stings, the image of that fake smile replaying in his head, the one Lando uses when the world’s watching and he’s trying to pretend everything’s okay.

Only now, Oscar realises, he’s seeing it turned on him.

Chapter Text

The humidity in Singapore is startling, the kind that clings to skin and makes everything feel heavier and slower. The city hums beneath it, bright lights, polished streets, fans whirring over paddock walkways. The air buzzes with the tension of the title fight, and Oscar can feel it pressing down on Lando like a physical thing.

Lando’s leading the championship, but only just. Max has been closing the gap every race since Lando’s DNF at Spa, relentless as ever. McLaren’s strategy meetings have doubled, sim sessions stacked one after another. They’ve both agreed that Lando needs to focus purely on the title now, no distractions, no unnecessary risks. Oscar means it when he says he supports that, but part of him can’t ignore the unease curling tighter in his chest every day.

They still spend a lot of time together. Oscar’s often in the sim room late at night, running data to help Lando’s engineers. He tells himself he doesn’t mind, that it’s good for him, good for Lando. But sometimes he catches himself wondering when the last time was that Lando slept properly or ate something that wasn’t handed to him mid-meeting.

The media hasn’t helped. Every broadcast and headline paints the same picture, ‘McLaren’s golden duo, mentor and protégé, the rising star and the reigning hope’. Oscar bites back smiles every time someone says how close they are, but beneath the warmth there’s something else, guilt, maybe. Because he knows what the cameras don’t. He knows how hard Lando is pushing himself.

Oscar stands by the back wall of the McLaren garage, half hidden behind the engineers’ screens. Lando is surrounded, laughing, all blinding charm and energy, the centre of gravity in every room he walks into. The mechanics are grinning, someone claps him on the back. It’s effortless, infectious.

But later, when the others drift away and the noise fades, Lando’s shoulders drop. He leans against the workbench, rubbing at his face like the act of smiling has started to ache.

Oscar steps forward, voice quiet. “You okay?”

Lando doesn’t even look up. “I’m fine.” He always says that.

“It’s me Lando.”

“I know Oscar,” Lando finally looks up at him. “I said I’m fine.”

Oscar doesn’t push, even though he wants to. He just lingers beside him until someone calls Lando over for debrief and he disappears again, the mask sliding back into place.

That night, the unease follows Oscar back to the hotel. He tries to sleep, but the room feels too still, the air conditioner humming too softly. When he finally drifts off, it doesn’t last long. A dull glow pulls him awake, Lando’s laptop, open on the edge of the bed.

Lando’s sitting up against the headboard, hair a mess, eyes fixed on lines of telemetry glowing across the screen. He’s scrolling, backtracking, adjusting numbers like he’s trying to rewrite what’s already happened.

“Lando,” Oscar mumbles, voice rough from sleep.

Lando startles slightly, blinking over at him, and that brief second is all it takes for Oscar to see how tired he really looks. The shadows under his eyes are deep, bruised purple in the pale light.

“Go back to sleep,” Lando says softly. “Just checking something.”

Oscar shifts, sitting up a little to reach for his phone on the bedside table, checking the time. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Lando murmurs without looking up, fingers tapping the trackpad. “Can’t sleep.”

Oscar watches him for a long moment, throat tight. There’s something fragile in the way Lando’s shoulders are hunched, in the way his jaw works like he’s clenching words back.

He wants to reach out and close the laptop, drag Lando back to bed, make him rest. But he doesn’t. Because he knows how much this means, and because, maybe, Lando needs to fight it his own way.

So instead he lies back down, eyes half open, watching the faint glow of the screen flicker across Lando’s face until sleep pulls him under again.

When he wakes a few hours later, the light is gone, and so is Lando. The bed beside him is empty, sheets twisted but still faintly warm. Through the thin curtains, sunlight glows hazy over the skyline, the air already thick with humidity and the sounds of the circuit starting to wake. Lando’s laptop is gone, the desk cleared like he’d never been there at all.

Oscar exhales, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. He knows Lando’s probably already at the track, he always is, the first in and the last to leave lately. Still, something about last night sits heavy in his chest, the image of Lando hunched over telemetry files burned behind his eyes. The circles under his eyes, the restless way his fingers tapped like the world would fall apart if he stopped.

He gets ready slowly, but his mind is miles away. If Lando keeps pushing like this, something’s going to have to give. The pressure, the expectations, the endless grind, Oscar’s seen what that does to people.

By the time he makes it to the circuit, he’s already made up his mind. He’s going to find a moment, even if it means chasing Lando between meetings and debriefs. He’s going to corner him in McLaren’s hospitality unit and make him talk, really talk. Because “I’m fine” has stopped meaning anything, and Oscar’s tired of pretending it’s enough.

Oscar’s nerves are already humming as he heads down the corridor toward McLaren hospitality. He’s been rehearsing what he’ll say all morning, something gentle but firm, just enough to get Lando to slow down, to admit that he’s not okay. But before he can even reach the door, Zac appears out of nowhere, his usual grin wide and conspiratorial.

“Oscar! Just the man I was looking for,” Zac says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Got a surprise for you.”

Oscar blinks, thrown off. “A surprise?”

Zac just smiles and gestures toward the entrance.

Before Oscar can ask anything else, the door opens and in walks his Mum, Dad, and all three sisters. All now standing in the middle of McLaren’s hospitality unit with bright smiles and travel-weary eyes.

Oscar can barely process what’s happening before his Mum is already halfway across the room. “Oscar!” Nicole beams.

“Mum?” His voice cracks between surprise and disbelief, eyes darting between her, his Dad, and his sisters, all standing there like it’s perfectly normal to appear unannounced in Singapore.

Nicole wraps him in a hug that knocks the air out of him. “You look so thin,” she says immediately. “Are you eating properly? You look tired too. Are you sleeping?”

Oscar laughs softly, overwhelmed and still not entirely convinced he isn’t hallucinating. “Hi, Mum. Nice to see you too.”

Then it’s his Dad’s turn, solid handshake turning into a full hug. “That’s for the McLaren contract mate. We’re all so bloody proud of you,” he says simply, voice warm but gruff, the kind of understated affection that makes Oscar’s chest tighten.

Hattie’s next, throwing her arms around him with exaggerated drama. “Missed you, big brother,” she says, and he can hear the mischief already in her voice. Edie and Mae follow close behind, each hugging him tight, chattering over one another about their flight, the heat, and how weirdly glamorous everything looks.

Oscar’s smiling, genuinely happy, but the shock still hasn’t worn off. “What are you all doing here?”

“Zac invited us,” Nicole says, throwing the team principal a grateful glance. “Said you might like a little surprise.”

Oscar looks at Zac, who only shrugs, clearly proud of himself. “Figured you’d earned it.”

Oscar’s heart swells, it feels good to have them here, grounding, familiar, until Nicole continues, tone casual but laced with curiosity.

“So,” she says, “are we finally going to meet this mystery boyfriend of yours?”

The words hit Oscar like a punch. His smile falters, the ground tilting beneath him. Right, his family knows he’s dating someone because he had admitted that much months ago after Hattie had made that comment to his Mum, but he never said who. He hasn’t told them that his boyfriend isn’t some quiet background person from the paddock, but instead is the current championship leader, four time world drivers’ championship, and his future teammate. Lando Norris.

He feels his chest tighten, throat dry, a hundred thoughts colliding in his head. They can’t know. Hattie promised she wouldn’t say anything. Please tell me she didn’t…

“Boyfriend?” Zac repeats with amused curiosity, clearly not aware of the chaos he’s just walked into.

“Yes,” Nicole says brightly. “He’s been terribly secretive about him, hasn’t told us a thing.”

Before Oscar can think of an answer, any answer, the door to hospitality slides open again, and Lando walks in.

He’s still in his papaya polo, cap pushed backward, cheeks a little flushed from the heat. His eyes immediately find Oscar, and his grin appears instinctively, soft and familiar. “Hey, Osc,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Didn’t know you had visitors.”

Nicole turns to greet him. “You must be Lando,” she says warmly, extending her hand. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Lando replies, shaking her hand with a polite smile.

For a few seconds, the conversation flows, Nicole commenting on the race atmosphere, Lando making some easy joke about the humidity, Edie and Mae teasing about how bright the papaya shirts are. Oscar laughs weakly, forcing himself to focus on the words, not the silent panic curling in his stomach.

Then Nicole turns back to him, expression expectant. “So,” she says, “is your boyfriend here in Singapore, or back home?”

Oscar’s breath catches. He can feel every muscle in his body lock, his brain scrambling for words that won’t come. “Uh…”

“Oh, he’s here,” Hattie says quickly, eyes glinting with mischief.

Oscar shoots her a look sharp enough to kill.

Nicole beams. “Perfect! Then I’ve booked dinner for tonight. Family and your mystery man, I expect you both to be there.”

“Mum, I don’t know if…”

“No excuses,” she interrupts cheerfully. “We haven’t all flown across the world just to be brushed off.”

The conversation rolls on, his sisters chatting to Zac about the paddock and the heat, his Mum admiring the hospitality space. Oscar’s still frozen where he stands, heart pounding, trying not to look in Lando’s direction, but he doesn’t need to. He can feel it. He felt it the moment he knew Lando had realised that his family doesn’t know that he’s Oscar’s boyfriend, that Oscar hasn’t told them.

When he finally does risk a glance, Lando’s smile hasn’t slipped, but something behind it has changed. The easy sparkle in his eyes is gone, replaced by something smaller, more guarded. His jaw tightens as he looks between Oscar and Nicole. The realisation flickers across Lando’s face, a subtle shift, hurt threaded through disbelief before he smooths it over with professional charm.

Nicole is still talking, laughing, completely unaware of the silent weight in the air, while Hattie smirks like she’s watching a movie unfold.

And Oscar, caught between his family’s excitement and Lando’s quiet disappointment, feels like the ground could swallow him whole.

By the time Oscar finally says goodbye to his family, his nerves feel like they’ve been stretched thin. His Mum’s chatter about dinner still echoes in his ears as the door to McLaren hospitality closes behind them. He turns, ready to exhale, only to find Lando standing a few metres away, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between confusion and hurt. The smile he usually wears isn’t there.

Lando doesn’t say a word. He just shakes his head, slow and disbelieving, before turning and walking down the corridor toward his driver’s room.

“Lando,” Oscar calls after him, but the other man doesn’t stop.

Oscar groans under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. He knows he’s made a mess of it, even if he can’t quite figure out how to fix it yet. With a low sigh, he follows, weaving through the narrow hallway until he reaches the familiar orange door.

He knocks once before slipping inside.

Lando’s standing near the small couch, back turned to the door, head bowed as he fiddles with the zip on his race jacket. The silence feels heavy, thick enough to choke on.

“Mind telling me what that was earlier?” Lando finally asks without looking up. His tone isn’t sharp, just quiet, the kind of quiet that hits harder than shouting.

Oscar winces, pacing a few steps before stopping. “I know it looked bad.”

“Looked bad?” Lando turns now, eyebrows raised.

Oscar’s throat feels dry. He starts pacing, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t, I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

Lando pushes off the counter. “You told me your family knew, that you’d told them,” he says, voice steady but heavy.

“I did.”

Lando blinks at him. “Then why did they not seem to know that I’m your boyfriend?”

Oscar stops pacing, exhales sharply, then sinks onto the couch with a groan. “Because I…” he pauses, dragging a hand over his face. “I’d told them I was seeing someone, but I’d never told them who. And they’d never pushed for a name so I just… didn’t give one.”

Lando stares at him, incredulous. “Oscar.”

“I know,” Oscar mutters. “I know how it sounds.”

There’s a long pause. Lando rubs at the back of his neck, trying not to sound hurt, but it slips out anyway. “So, what, you didn’t think I was worth mentioning by name?”

Oscar looks up fast. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” Lando presses, still calm, but the softness in his voice doesn’t hide the sting underneath. “Are you embarrassed by me?”

“No,” Oscar says sharply. “No, I’m not embarrassed by you.”

“So then what is it Oscar?” Lando says, frustration clearly visible on his face. “Did you just expect that we’d keep going like this and your parents would never find out?”

“No, I… no… I don’t know.” Oscar sighs, slumping back against the cushions. “I guess I’m worried about how my parents are going to react, Mum especially. And I hate that I’m anticipating negative reactions from them because they’re good people. It’s just they’ve already spoken to me about their worries when you and I were just friends and when I got the McLaren contract. I don’t like the thought of how they’re going to react when they find out you’re my boyfriend.”

“What does that even mean Oscar?”

Oscar hesitates slightly before letting out a small defeated sigh. “They’ve already made comments about you being a lot older…”

That stops Lando. His brows knit together, a small frown forming. “They think I’m too old for you?”

“You’re twenty eight Lando,” Oscar says quietly. “I’m twenty. My mum… she’s already worried about me being in your world. She’s worried about me being taken advantage of.”

Lando’s face falls. “She thinks I’m taking advantage of you?”

“No, not exactly. I think she’ll worry that I could be,” Oscar admits, voice low. “That I don’t know what I’m doing. That you... that I’m some kid caught up in something I can’t handle.”

Lando’s chest tightens. He takes a slow step closer, his voice quieter now. “Hey, look at me.”

Oscar doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the floor, fingers twisting in his lap. “Mum’s protective,” he continues. “She’s always been protective. And you… you’re you. Famous, older, confident. Everything she’ll think I’m not ready for. But my Mum doesn’t know that I am,” Oscar continues quietly, voice cracking slightly. “And that’s my fault, I know that, for letting my worries take over. Lando I left home when I was twelve. Mum hasn’t been around for majority of my awkward teenage years. In her mind, I’m always going to be that little kid who left home to chase his dream.”

Lando exhales. “Oscar, I don’t care how old you are. You know that. You’re not some kid who doesn’t know what he wants. You know exactly what you’re want, what you’re ready for. Please tell me you know that? That I haven’t…” Lando trails off when his voice cracks.

Oscar looks up at this, startled to see what he can only name as fear in Lando’s eyes, raw and unguarded fear. Lando’s breathing has gone shallow, his gaze flicking away like he can’t bear to meet Oscar’s. It creates a hollow sort of panic in Oscar’s chest that he desperately needs to fix.

Oscar with his heart thudding so hard, reaches forward to grab Lando’s hand in his, pulling him closer so Lando’s standing between Oscar’s legs. “Lando,” he says quietly, careful not to startle him. Lando’s head jerks up, eyes still wide, searching for something, absolution maybe, or punishment.

“I need you to listen to me,” Oscar continues, his voice steadier than he feels. “You’ve never taken advantage of me,” He reaches out with his other hand, resting it around the curve of Lando’s waist, grounding him. “I’ve never felt pressured. Not once. You’ve always given me space to choose, even when I didn’t know what I wanted yet.”

Lando exhales shakily, still not quite convinced. Oscar squeezes his wrist, softer this time. “I’ve never felt small, or insecure, or unsafe with you Lando. You’ve never made me feel anything but safe.”

The words hang there, fragile but certain, and slowly, the tension in Lando’s shoulders starts to ease. His eyes flicker over Oscar’s face like he’s trying to find any trace of doubt and finding none.

Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair, sitting down in the space next to Oscar, hand still entwined. “So, what you’re saying is I have to work extra hard tonight to win your Mum over?”

“Wait.” Oscar blinks at Lando, thinking he must have misheard. “You still want to come tonight? To dinner with my family?”

Lando looks at Oscar, eyebrows raised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Oscar hesitates, words catching somewhere between his chest and throat. “I don’t know. Guess I just thought maybe you’d want to skip it, save yourself from all the drama.”

Lando huffs a laugh, leaning further into Oscar. “Oscar, they’re your family. Of course it’s going to be awkward when they realise why I’m there. But that doesn’t mean I’m not showing up.” His voice softens. “You really think I’d let you face that alone?”

Oscar stares at him, still not quite able to believe it. “You’d actually want to sit through a dinner where my parents will interrogate you and my Mum might glare at you the whole time?”

Lando grins, stepping closer until their hands brush. “I’ve handled podium interviews and team principals. I can handle your Mum.”

That earns a startled laugh from Oscar, but the nerves still sit heavy in his stomach. “I just… I didn’t think you’d still want to come after I…”

“Didn’t tell them about me?” Lando finishes for him, gently. “Yeah, I won’t lie Oscar, that hurt, a lot. But I think I get it. Anxiety is an ugly beast, and I don’t think even the experts can really ever fully understand why it makes us do the things we do. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you. And I think you need to give yourself, and your parents, some more credit.”

Oscar blinks again, throat tight. Lando just shrugs, small smile returning. “So yes, I still want to come. I’m going to meet your family properly, be on my best behaviour, and convince your Mum that I’m not someone who’s going to take advantage of her little boy.”

Oscar looks at him like he’s something he doesn’t quite know how to deserve. “Yeah okay.”

Lando grins wider. “Just you wait, she’ll totally like me better than you by the end of the night.”

Oscar’s laugh fades into something softer, and before he can think, Lando leans in, brushing their mouths together. The kiss is unhurried, familiar, full of quiet promise. When they pull apart, Lando’s forehead rests against Oscar’s.

“She going to love me,” Lando murmurs.

Oscar smiles, thumb brushing over Lando’s jaw. “Yeah,” he whispers. “She doesn’t stand a chance.”

…

The restaurant his Mum has chosen is a glass walled space overlooking Singapore’s waterfront, the skyline spilling colour onto the water. The humidity clings to the air, thick and heavy, but Oscar barely feels it. His pulse is hammering too loud in his ears. He spots his parents and sisters seated by the window, waving him over, his Mum already standing to greet him with a warm smile.

Oscar sees the exact moment Nicole realises who it is that’s walking just a couple of steps behind Oscar. The smile on her face falters, her eyes widening just slightly before she schools her expression back into something careful and composed.

Nicole pauses mid-step. “Lando,” she says, surprise flickering across her face. “What are you… ah, what a nice surprise.”

Lando looks at Oscar briefly before he offers a hand to his Mum. “Hi Mrs Piastri. Thank you for inviting me to dinner,” his tone warm and genuine.

Around the table behind his Mum’s back, Chris’ hand stills around his glass, and Hattie chokes on a quiet laugh she tries to hide behind her serviette. Edie and Mae exchange wide-eyed glances, realisation flickering between them like a spark.

In front of him, Nicole’s brows lifts in surprise, her eyes snap back and forth between Oscar and Lando. “What...”

Oscar swallows, heart in his throat. “Yeah,” he says quickly, voice rough. He reaches out to grab Lando’s hand, squeezing hard, a silent ask for courage. “Um there’s something I should’ve told you earlier.” He clears his throat. “Lando’s my boyfriend.”

For a moment, there’s stunned silence, the kind that stretches and hums with unspoken thoughts. Then Mae lets out a triumphant, “I knew it!” while Edie smirks and nudges her under the table. Hattie just grins, arms crossing as she leans back in her chair. “Finally,” she says, like she’s been waiting for Oscar to catch up.

Chris is the first to move, standing to offer his hand to Lando. “Well,” he says, measured but kind, “it’s nice to finally meet you Lando.”

“You too,” Lando responds, accepting the handshake.

Nicole stays quiet, her expression unreadable, the only sign of surprise is a small purse of her lips. Her eyes flick between Oscar and Lando before she nods once, still processing.

“Wait,” Mae says suddenly, turning to Hattie. “Does that mean you knew it was Lando? Considering you’re the one who told us Oscar was seeing someone.”

Hattie shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Eh, now Oscar’s owes me doesn’t he?” Hattie answers easily.

Oscar groans. “I honestly thought you would’ve. Told everyone I mean.”

Hattie smirks, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got to have a little faith in me sometimes.”

“Okay,” Nicole says finally, polite, the kind of tone she uses when she’s trying to stay calm. “Well. Let’s sit then, shall we?”

Dinner begins in polite silence. The table feels too big, the air too still. Oscar can hear every scrape of cutlery, every sip of water. He can’t decide where to look, so he focuses on Lando’s hand resting beside his own.

He can tell Lando is trying to fill the space the way he always does, with easy charm and quick jokes. It’s working with his sisters, conversation flowing smoothly but the tension between them and parents remains very much intact.

Nicole keeps her tone polite, her questions careful but edged. “So,” she says, looking at Lando, “how long has this… been going on?”

Lando swallows, setting down his fork. “Since Spa, officially,” he answers. “But we’ve been close for a while.”

“Spa,” Chris repeats, brow furrowing. “So a couple of months now?”

Oscar nods, but his voice comes out quieter than he intends. “Yeah.”

There’s another silence. Edie tries to lighten the mood, asking Lando what it’s like driving for McLaren, but Chris’ next question cuts through the brief ease. “And you don’t think that’s going to be a problem? Being teammates next year? Mixing personal and professional?”

Oscar and Lando glance at each other, caught off guard. Neither speaks for a long moment. Lando finally exhales through his nose, offering a small shrug. “We haven’t really… worked that bit out yet,” he admits. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Nicole hums, not unkindly but still cautious. “That’s a lot to take on, especially with how intense your sport is.”

Oscar forces a nod. “We know,” he says quietly, though his stomach twists.

Lando tries to ease the tension with a small smile. “We’re both used to pressure,” he says. “It’ll just be a new kind of team dynamic, I guess.”

It doesn’t land quite how he hopes. The table falls silent again, only the scrape of cutlery breaking the moment. Hattie nudges Oscar under the table with her foot, shooting him a look that says it’ll be fine, but he isn’t so sure.

Nicole exchanges a brief glance with Chris, her expression tight but not cold, more protective than disapproving. She finally sighs, voice softer. Nicole’s voice carries that delicate blend of motherly warmth and underlying worry, the kind that always manages to make Oscar feel twelve years old again. “You have to understand, this isn’t about disliking Lando. It’s just… you’re young, Oscar. You’ve still got a lot of life ahead of you, a lot of career ahead of you. And F1 isn’t exactly known for being forgiving when it comes to distractions.”

Oscar keeps his gaze fixed on the rim of his plate. He’s heard versions of this before, from engineers, from press, from anyone who thinks they know what’s best for him. But hearing it from his mum hurts in a different way. “It’s not a distraction,” he says finally, voice quiet but firm. “He’s not.”

Nicole softens at that, but Chris leans forward, elbows on the table. “No one’s saying he is. We just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. You two being on the same team, in the same car every weekend, that’s a lot of pressure. And if something goes wrong…” He trails off, not needing to finish.

Oscar feels the weight of it settle in his stomach. If something goes wrong. The idea has been haunting him more than he’d ever admit, every time he pictures next season, the pride in Lando’s eyes, the way the world will watch them, dissect them, compare them. What if the comparisons aren’t kind? What if he lets Lando down?

Lando, sitting beside him, seems to sense it. He doesn’t speak right away, just shifts slightly and reaches across the table, his fingers brushing Oscar’s hand before lacing their fingers together. The gesture is instinctive, grounding, his thumb tracing lazy circles across Oscar’s knuckles like he’s done a hundred times in quieter rooms.

The effect is immediate. Oscar’s shoulders loosen a fraction, his breath coming easier.

Nicole notices. Her fork stills mid-air, and for the first time since they sat down, her expression softens into something like understanding. There’s a small, barely there smile, the kind she gives when she’s not ready to admit she’s been swayed but can’t quite hide it either.

“I get it,” Lando says steady. “If I were in your position, I’d be protective too.”

Nicole nods, but the silence that follows feels heavy. Chris focuses on his plate.

Trying to ease the strain, Lando adds, “I care about Oscar. I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

Nicole meets his gaze for a long moment before replying softly, “I hope so.”

The table goes quiet again, only the scrape of a knife on china breaking the stillness. It’s polite, civil, but under the surface, every word feels like a test neither of them is sure they’re passing.

The conversation shifts gradually after the tension peaks. Nicole’s tone softens first, asking about the travel between races, about how the team manages rest and diet. Lando answers easily, his natural charm returning bit by bit, and Chris listens closely, leaning forward with interest rather than scrutiny.

When Lando mentions Oscar’s work ethic, how much time he spends studying telemetry and how precise he is on track, Chris gives a short nod, something like approval flickering across his face. “Sounds like you two work well together,” he says, voice gentler now.

“We do,” Lando replies. “He makes me think differently about how I approach things. It’s good. Keeps me sharp.”

Oscar ducks his head, cheeks warm, but the honesty in Lando’s voice settles some of the earlier unease.

Nicole smiles faintly. “Well, I suppose it helps to have someone who understands what you do,” she says, her words careful but genuine.

“It does,” Lando agrees. “I know how hard it is starting out, finding your rhythm. I just want to make sure he has people around him who get it.”

The way he says it, quiet, certain, makes Nicole’s expression soften further. She glances at Oscar, something unreadable passing over her face, then says, “That’s kind of you.”

From there, things loosen. The conversation turns to lighter topics, stories from races, travel mishaps, Oscar’s childhood obsession with go-karts. When Lando jokes about Oscar being more competitive off-track than on, Chris laughs, properly this time, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

By the time dessert arrives, the tension that had been sitting in the air has melted into something easier. Nicole even asks Lando about his family and mentions how much she’d like to meet them someday.

Across the table, Oscar exhales quietly, shoulders relaxing for the first time all night. Watching his parents and sisters laugh with Lando, seeing his Dad’s guarded curiosity turn into genuine interest, he feels a flicker of something he hadn’t dared hope for at the start of the evening, acceptance.

Lando catches his eye, smiling softly, as he tells a story about a sponsor event gone wrong, something about a live interview, a drone camera malfunctioning, and him accidentally calling a CEO by the wrong name. It’s told with his usual animated hand gestures, a grin breaking through every word. The table dissolves into laughter, even Nicole covering her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

Chris leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “You’re a brave man, talking about that on record,” he says with a laugh.

“Only because the video’s already gone viral,” Lando replies, smiling. “Might as well own it now.”

The ease in his tone is infectious. For the first time all night, the tension lifts completely. Nicole smiles properly, genuine and warm. Even Chris, who’d spent most of the dinner wearing the look of a man measuring every word, relaxes enough to laugh openly.

After dinner, the plates cleared and conversation lingering, Oscar finds himself cornered by his sisters near the bar. Mae grins wide, voice pitched low. “He’s sweet. Didn’t expect that.”

Hattie adds with a smirk, “He’s so sweet on you, Oscar. It’s disgusting.”

Oscar groans, cheeks colouring. “Can we not?”

“Can we not?” Hattie mimics, nudging him. “You’re practically glowing. Mum noticed too, by the way.”

Oscar mutters something under his breath about minding their own business, but they only laugh harder.

A few minutes later, Nicole gently pulls him aside while the others talk amongst themselves. She stands close, her voice quiet but steady. “You know I worry,” she says. “It’s just what Mums do. You’re still so young, and this world you’re in, it isn’t easy. But…” She pauses, eyes softening. “I can see he cares about you. Really cares. And that’s what matters to me.”

Oscar exhales, something loosening in his chest. “He does,” he says, voice small but sure. “He really does.”

“I can tell,” she says, reaching up to fix the collar of his shirt in that automatic Mum way. “Just look after each other, alright? Fame, racing, travel, those things can take more than they give.”

He nods, his throat tight. “We will.”

“And I want to meet his family okay?” Nicole points a finger at him. “You can tell what kind of person someone is when you see the way they treat their family.”

“Yeah okay,” Oscar laughs, letting his Mum kiss him on the cheek before they make their way back to the table.

By the time the night winds down, Lando’s won over everyone. At the door, Chris extends his hand toward Lando, firm and deliberate. “You’re a good man,” he says, then adds, quieter, “Just don’t forget he’s still finding his place in all this.”

Lando meets his gaze and nods. “I know. And I’ll be there helping him find it.”

It’s enough. Chris gives a short nod, letting go of his hand.

When the door finally shuts behind them, the city quiet in the distance, Oscar exhales a long, shaky breath. “That was terrifying.”

“Yeah.” Lando grins, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around him. “Do you think they liked me?”

Oscar laughs into his chest, the tension finally draining away. “I think they were apprehensive at first but yeah, I think they like you.”

“Good,” Lando murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “Because I really like you.”

Oscar looks up, eyes catching on Lando’s tired but fond smile. “Good think you’re stuck with me then.”

Lando’s grin softens, thumb brushing along Oscar’s jaw. “Promise?”

Oscar smiles, heart full. “Promise.”

…

Lando’s driver room is quiet bar the soft drone of the air conditioning and the muted sounds of the bustling Singapore paddock outside. Oscar is lying stretched across the narrow couch, scrolling absently through his phone, thumb moving but not really seeing what’s on the screen. He’s been waiting nearly half an hour, his body thrumming with restless energy now that he has nothing to occupy his time in the paddock.

When the door opens, he glances up immediately. Lando steps in, hair damp from the shower, a faint mark from the balaclava and helmet still pressed into his cheek. He’s changed into his usual black jeans and McLaren hoodie. He doesn’t say a word, just walks straight over and nudges Oscar’s leg.

“Move over,” he says softly, voice rough.

Oscar blinks but shifts without protest. Lando drops down heavily onto the couch, lets out a long exhale, then tugs Oscar back down so he’s now lying half on top of him. It’s instinctive now, how easily they fit together, Oscar’s head on his chest, one of Lando’s hands finding its place under his shirt in the dip at the base of his spine.

For a long time, they don’t speak. The air is warm and quiet, filled only with the faint buzz of Lando’s phone somewhere on the desk.

“You okay?” Oscar asks eventually, his voice muffled against Lando’s chest.

Lando exhales a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Define okay.”

“You finished third,” Oscar points out softly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“Could’ve been better.” His tone is flat, not angry, just tired. “Car felt great, but every time I thought I had Max in range, he just…” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Oscar tilts his head slightly, looking up at him. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

Lando’s lips twitch. “Third’s fine. Just… not what I wanted.”

He goes quiet again, fingers drawing lazy lines against Oscar’s back. His other hand drifts to the base of Oscar’s neck, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles.

“You don’t have to wait around for me like this,” Lando murmurs after a while. “You could’ve gone back to the hotel, spent time with your family.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “Didn’t want to.”

Lando glances down, brow furrowed but eyes warm. “You really like sitting in smelly driver rooms, huh?”

“Only yours.”

That earns a soft laugh, short and breathy. “That’s a low bar, mate.”

Oscar hums, lips brushing against Lando’s shirt. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” Lando admits. “But it’s a good kind of tired. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Lando’s hand stills for a moment. “I don’t know, feels like I’ve got no idea what I’m doing at the moment,” he says quietly. “Max just keeps getting closer and closer, and I have no answers.”

Oscar shifts, propping himself up slightly so he can see Lando’s face. “You’re leading the championship,” he says. “You’re doing better than you ever have.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like it,” Lando murmurs. His voice is so soft it almost gets lost beneath the hum of the air conditioner. “Feels like every time Max wins, it’s just more pressure on me not to lose next time. Like I’m one mistake away from it all falling apart.”

Oscar studies him for a moment, the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “You’re allowed to be tired,” he says.

That makes Lando look down at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, finally, he gives a small, tired smile. “You always say the right thing.”

“I don’t,” Oscar replies. “I just say what you need to hear.”

Lando’s hand slides up, fingers threading through Oscar’s hair. They stay like that, the quiet stretching comfortably between them. After a while, Oscar feels Lando’s breathing slow, the weight of him sinking deeper into the couch.

Oscar tilts his head slightly, catching the small frown that lingers even in rest. He lifts his hand, tracing the outline of Lando’s jaw with his fingertips before whispering, “You did good today.”

Lando hums, not quite awake. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Oscar says softly. “And I’m proud of you.”

For a moment, Lando doesn’t respond. Then he whispers, voice rough, “Thanks, Osc.” Lando leans down and presses a quick kiss to Oscar’s lips. Then, quietly, Lando says, “Yesterday, dinner with your family and in Baku with Max and the others. I um… I lied.”

Oscar looks up, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Lando doesn’t meet his eyes. He stares at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. “I’m not totally fine about us being teammates next year. So I think we do need to, talk about… us.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to breathe. His stomach twists as he pushes himself up slightly, searching Lando’s face for a hint of what’s coming. “Us as in…”

“Boyfriends and teammates,” Lando says, voice careful, almost too steady. “It’s going to be different now. We can’t pretend it’s simple.”

The air between them feels heavy, not cold, just uncertain. Oscar swallows, his chest tightens, his mind already spiralling with the worst outcome. Lando’s going to break up with him. His mouth goes dry. “Right,” he says softly.

Lando sits up fully now, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. What happens when next season starts, when we’re in the same car, fighting for the same results. How we keep things separate, how we don’t screw this up.”

Oscar draws in a slow breath, trying to ignore the panic clawing at his chest. “Do you… think we can?”

Lando finally looks at him, eyes tired but sincere. “I don’t know. All I know is we need to be honest about what that means.” His voice drops a little. “It’s going to be hard. The media, the fans, even the team. Everyone’s going to have opinions.”

Oscar nods, lips pressing together. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that too. How next season is going to go, what it might be like for us to handle it whilst we’re together.”

“We’ll have to talk to Zac and Andrea,” Lando says. “They should know about us and they should hear it from us, not through some rumour. And maybe if they know, it’ll make things easier.”

Oscar leans forward slightly. “You think they’ll be okay with it?”

“I don’t think they’ll be overly happy, but I also don’t think they’ll be cruel about it. I think they’ll care more about results,” Lando says, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I trust them, they’ve always been fair.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just… don’t want to give them a reason to doubt us.”

Oscar studies him, the crease forming between Lando’s eyebrows, the way his fingers keep playing with strands of Oscar’s hair to stop them from shaking. “You’ve really been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

Lando huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah. My therapist’s probably sick of hearing about it by now.”

Oscar blinks. “You’ve talked to your therapist about us?”

“Yeah, I have,” Lando says softly. “I am so terrified of messing this up Osc. I’ve never had to this before, been with someone I have to race against, that I have to want to beat every week. And definitely not with someone I care about this much.” His voice wavers slightly on the last part, and Oscar’s heart twists.

He reaches down and takes Lando’s hand, thumb brushing over the callouses along his knuckles. “We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly. “Together.”

Lando stares at their joined hands for a long moment. “I just don’t want this sport to ruin us,” he admits. “I’ve seen what it does to people, the pressure, the comparisons. What if next year I beat you, or you beat me? What if it changes how we look at each other?”

Oscar hesitates, then admits, “I’ve thought about that too. What if everyone only sees me as your rookie? What if I’m just… a shadow next to you?” His voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t want that. Not for me, and not for us.”

“You won’t be,” Lando says instantly, squeezing his hand tighter. “You’re too bloody good for that. And I’ll make sure people see that.”

Oscar shakes his head faintly. “You can’t protect me from everything, Lando.”

“I know,” Lando says. “But I can try to make it easier. We’ll keep our heads down, work hard, and when people talk, we’ll give them something better to talk about, results, points, wins.”

Oscar gives a small smile. “You make it sound easy.”

Lando chuckles under his breath. “It won’t be. But maybe that’s what makes it worth it.” He looks back up, expression softer now. “So… we’ll tell the team soon, yeah?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Maybe after the season. Gives everyone time to make plans if they have to.”

Lando exhales slowly, a long breath that seems to pull the tension out of his shoulders. “So… we’re really doing this?”

Oscar lets out a quiet laugh, his nerves finally starting to ease. “Yeah, we are.”

Lando smiles, not his media grin, not the one he wears for cameras, but something small and real. “Good. Because I was really hoping to have a boyfriend to kiss after I win the drivers’ championship.”

Oscar snorts. “You’re so cocky.”

Lando grins wider. “Confident.”

“Same thing,” Oscar mutters, but his smile is warm when Lando leans forward to kiss him.

Lando’s thumb strokes along Oscar’s jaw, gentle, grounding. When they part, they’re both smiling faintly, the air between them lighter now, filled with something that feels a lot like certainty.

Oscar settles back down against him, heart still racing, but in the good way. “We’ll figure it out,” he says again, and this time, he almost believes it.

Lando hums in agreement, pressing his lips to the top of Oscar’s head. “Yeah,” he murmurs, quiet but steady. “We will.”

Chapter Text

The next few weeks move by in a blur. After Singapore, the calendar barely slows, the world reduces to flights and circuits and the dizzy rhythm of a season nearing it’s end.

Oscar’s family stay a few extra days in Singapore after the race, turning the chaos of the weekend into something almost normal. Mornings began with a swim in the hotel pool. Dinners at restaurants along the river. His sister’s teasing and laughter too loud in the humidity. Lando joins them when he can, his easy charm dissolving what little tension lingered. Nicole starts asking him questions about his family and races instead of his age. Chris jokes about having to teach Lando how to race remote control cars.

Oscar watches him sometimes, from beside him or across the table at dinner, quietly amazed at how easily Lando seemed to belong. He’d expected awkwardness, maybe distance after that first tense dinner, but instead there was laughter and warmth.

They took a waterfront drive one day with his sisters, windows down, music blaring. Lando’s hand brushing against Oscar’s on the centre console, his sisters crammed in the back. It was all so normal, almost too normal for two people who spent most of their lives in paddocks and airports.

When they finally said goodbye before his family flew back to Australia, Nicole hugged Lando too and said, “Look after each other.” Oscar caught the way Lando’s face softened at that.

Oscar and Lando fly to the United States next, the COTA race weekend already looming. Jet lag and exhaustion couldn’t dull the energy that thrummed through Lando once they landed. The track was alive with noise, and Lando was unstoppable from the moment he hit the circuit. Oscar sat in the McLaren garage during practice, headset on, watching data flicker across the screens as Lando’s name stayed at the top of every time sheet.

Sprint Saturday came, and he nailed it. Sunday followed, and he did it again. Lando’s voice over the radio after crossing the line was breathless, choked with emotion, half disbelieving, half euphoric. “We did it, boys! Two for two!” The cameras caught him pounding his chest, champagne flying, but what they didn’t catch was his eyes searching through the crowd until they landed on Oscar standing just behind the rest of the team, beaming like the sun.

Later that evening, after the media duties and team celebrations, the paddock had mostly emptied. The scent of burnt rubber still hung in the air, lights reflecting off the chrome edges of the hospitality units. Oscar was walking toward the McLaren truck when a hand caught his wrist and pulled him sideways, out of view.

“Lando…” he started, but the rest of the sentence was swallowed as Lando pressed him gently against the wall, the edge of a laugh still caught in his throat. His race suit was half unzipped, the undershirt clinging to his skin, the faint smell of champagne and sweat still lingering.

“Couldn’t wait,” Lando whispered, voice low and rough from shouting all day.

Before Oscar could respond, Lando kisses him, one hand finding its way to the back of Oscar’s neck, the other curving around Oscar’s waist. The world shrank until it was just the two of them, the hum of generators and the sound of distant celebration fading to nothing.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Oscar’s lips tingled, and his heart raced faster than any car on track.

Lando leaned in again, voice a soft rasp. “Told you that you’re my lucky charm.”

Oscar laughed quietly, still dazed. “You don’t need luck.”

“Maybe not,” Lando said, brushing his thumb over Oscar’s jaw, “but I like having you here anyway.”

Oscar’s smile was small but certain. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

Lando grinned, the corner of his mouth curving up into that familiar boyish smirk, and kissed him once more before whispering, “Good. Because neither am I.”

That night, Lando showed up at Oscar’s hotel room door with a grin and a crisp white shirt that still had a faint smell of cologne and fuel. “You ready for the best steak in America?”

Oscar rolled his eyes but smiled. “You said that about the pasta in Italy as well.”

“Yeah, and I mean it every time.”

The restaurant was tucked away, expensive but unpretentious, all dark wood and low lighting. A jazz band played softly in the corner. The waiter greeted Lando like an old friend, and for a while, it didn’t feel like the world outside existed, no cameras, no press, just them.

They talked about everything and nothing. Lando joked about how Oscar always looked unimpressed around media, Oscar teased him about being allergic to humility. Between courses, their knees brushed under the table, and neither moved away. Lando’s hand lingered when he passed Oscar the breadbasket, thumb brushing lightly against his fingers. It wasn’t overt, but it was enough to make Oscar’s stomach twist with warmth.

By dessert, Lando was leaning forward, chin propped on his hand, watching Oscar talk. “You know,” he said softly, interrupting mid-story, “you’ve started smiling more lately.”

Oscar blinked. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” Lando murmured, eyes warm. “it’s a good look on you.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled again, and Lando’s grin widened like that was exactly the reaction he wanted.

…

A week later Oscar’s apartment looks like a cyclone has hit it. Shirts are draped over the back of chairs, a pair of trousers lies half folded on the bed, and the iron he swore he’d use is still cold. His phone is balanced on the duvet beside him, Lando’s face on the screen and voice filling the room with an ease that feels like breathing.

Half a world away, it’s late in Brazil. Lando’s in his hotel room, still in team gear, hair damp from a shower and eyes heavy with exhaustion. The time difference means their calls have been scattered, short FaceTime’s between meetings and sleep, but this one feels different. Oscar’s hearing with the FIA and Contract Recognition Board is in a few hours, and he hasn’t been able to shake the nerves all morning.

“It’s not a red carpet event, Osc,” Lando says, tone playful.

Oscar huffs, tugging a jacket off its hanger. “It’s the FIA’s contract recognition board, Lando. I can’t show up looking like I got lost on the way to a driver briefing.”

“You could,” Lando says, “you’d just look like you’re there to fix the coffee machine.”

Oscar glares at the phone. “You’re not helping.”

“I am helping. Show me what you’ve got.”

“Blue suit, grey suit, or this one that I think has been through three apartment moves.”

There’s a pause, then a groan through the speaker. “Please tell me that’s not the shirt you wore to my parent’s house for dinner.”

Oscar glances at the crumpled fabric. “…Maybe.”

“Oscar.”

“Alright, blue suit,” he concedes, tugging it on and checking the mirror. It fits a little snugger than he remembers. “But I look like I’m about to sell a house.”

“Good,” Lando says, and Oscar can hear the smile in his voice. “Responsible. Professional. The kind of guy who brings his own pen to meetings.”

“Do you?”

“No, I steal them,” Lando replies easily. “Now lose the tie. You’ll fidget with it the whole time.”

Oscar looks down at the tie in his hands. “You don’t think it makes me look more formal?”

“Maybe,” Lando says, “but you also look better without it. Trust me.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but slips the tie off anyway, staring at his reflection. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get enough air in. “I feel sick.”

“Breathe,” Lando says gently. The teasing is gone now, replaced by calm steadiness. “You’ve done nothing wrong, yeah? You’re just explaining what happened. The truth’s on your side.”

Oscar tries to nod, even though his throat aches. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It will,” Lando says. “You’ve raced through worse pressure in F2 and F3. Hell you’ve raced Monaco remember? This’ll be over before you even hit turn one.”

A weak smile pulls at Oscar’s lips. “You make everything sound so simple.”

“Because you can handle it,” Lando says, voice softer now. “Just go in there and do what you do best, keep your head straight and let everyone else panic for you.”

For a moment, the world stills. The weight pressing on Oscar’s chest lightens just enough. He sits down on the edge of his bed, looking at the suit jacket folded over his knees, the phone pressed between his hands.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“Always,” Lando says, a sincere smile across his face. “Now breathe, okay?”

“I know, I know,” Oscar says.

A sharp knock rattles Oscar’s front door, startling him so much he nearly drops his phone. “That’ll be Mark,” he mutters, glancing off screen.

On his phone, Lando’s grinning. “Already? You’ve got this, yeah?”

Oscar nods, even though his stomach twists itself into knots. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You focus on your race, okay? Win it for me.”

Lando laughs, soft and fond. “Always do. Good luck today, alright? You’ll smash it.”

Another knock, louder this time, followed by Mark’s muffled voice calling his name.

Oscar grabs his keys and wallet, moving toward the door while still half focused on the screen. “Thanks,” he says, breath quick. “Good luck for the race, I’ll see you when you’re back.”

Lando smiles at him, easy and sure. “Deal.”

Oscar ends the call mid-smile, words tumbling out in a rush. “I love you, bye.”

The line clicks dead before he even realises what he’s said. He blinks at the dark screen for a beat, then shakes it off, swinging the door open to find Mark waiting with a file in one hand and a takeaway coffee in the other.

“Ready?” Mark asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” Oscar says, locking the door behind him, completely unaware of the way his chest feels a little lighter than it did a moment ago.

…

The hearing meeting feels endless, it’s a blur of sterile light and stifling tension that seems to thicken in the air until Oscar can barely draw breath. The conference room at FIA headquarters is large, cold and clinical. All white walls and silver nameplates.

Oscar sits at the long oak table in between Mark and Zac, McLaren lawyers and PR either side of them. His posture straight but rigid, hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles ache. Across from them sits the Alpine delegation, team principal, lawyers, PR heads, a line of sharp suits and sharper glares. Oscar can’t help but feel it’s not a hearing so much as an ambush in disguise.

Zac and Mark do most of the talking, steady and composed, voices even as they take it in turns to dismantle Alpine’s claims piece by piece. Oscar listens in silence, every word landing like a heartbeat. Contract language, clauses, timing of signatures, jurisdiction, all the things that don’t fit in the adrenaline soaked world of racing but somehow matter more now than any lap time ever could.

When questions eventually come his way, Oscar does his best to answer firmly, keeping his tone neutral even as the Alpine principal’s stare burns into him. “Yes, I did review the contract before signing with McLaren. Yes, I sought independent legal counsel. No, I did not verbally agree to anything when Alpine presented their supposed extension.”

Each answer is met with murmurs. Each one seems to tighten the tension in the room another notch. He feels like he’s sitting on the edge of a cliff, waiting for something to give.

By the time the FIA representatives leave to deliberate, his chest feels hollow. Mark claps a hand on his shoulder. “You did good, mate,” he says quietly. “Better than they expected.”

Oscar nods mutely, staring down at his hands. He feels lightheaded, drained.

When the officials finally return, the silence in the room stretches thin. The lead representative speaks, voice clipped but calm. “The board finds that both Mr Piastri and McLaren acted in accordance with all applicable regulations and contract recognition procedures.”

Oscar exhales shakily, eyes darting between Mark and Zac to make what he’s hearing is correct.

“The appeal by Alpine is denied,” the official continues. “We suggest Alpine review their internal processes to avoid such discrepancies in future.”

Zac’s grin breaks the tension instantly. He lets out a low whistle, patting Oscar’s back. “Told you we’d come out clean.”

But Oscar can’t seem to speak. Relief floods through him, tangled with disbelief. He nods, murmuring a quiet “thank you” as they officials dismiss both parties.

“Now we can officially get started on getting you ready for next year huh?” Zac exclaims.

Oscar blinks, the words not sinking in at first. “So…” His throat feels tight. “I can race? Like, actually race?”

Mark laughs under his breath, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe it either. “Yes, mate. You can race.”

Zac folds his arms with a broad smile. “The FIA’s confirmed it. You’re a McLaren driver for 2026. Officially, legally, no more questions.”

Oscar’s voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I can race.” He repeats it, slower this time, as if saying it will make it real. His hands are trembling.

Mark claps a hand on his shoulder, the weight of it grounding. “Told you, kid. You just had to hang in there.”

Zac gives him a nod, eyes warm. “Welcome to the team, Oscar. Now let’s go show them what they almost missed out on.”

Oscar exhales, chest finally loosening, a laugh breaking through that sounds more like disbelief than joy. He looks between them, still dazed. “I can actually race.”

Mark grins. “Yeah, and you bloody well will.”

Oscar just smiles at that, so wide his cheeks ache. The relief and disbelief mixing until it feels like sunlight bursting through him.

When they get outside, the London sky is overcast, the kind that threatens rain but never follows through. The cameras are gone, the media waiting outside have long since dispersed once they received the news they needed. It’s strangely anticlimactic, walking out of a building that held so much weight only hours earlier.

By the time he gets home, it’s late. The TV’s on in the background with the replay of the Brazilian Grand Prix. On screen, Lando’s standing on the podium, champagne spraying, smile wide and bright despite the faint exhaustion around his eyes.

“Lando Norris takes second place in São Paulo,” the commentator says, voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Another strong showing in the title fight.”

Oscar smiles faintly, heart swelling despite the fatigue. He grabs his phone, scrolling until he finds Lando’s name and presses call.

The line rings, once, twice, then takes him straight to voicemail. He hesitates, then speaks softly. “Hey, congrats on P2. Just saw the replay.” A pause. “The hearing went well. We won. They dismissed Alpine’s claim.” His voice wavers, uncertain. “Call me when you can, yeah?”

He hangs up, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before setting the phone down. The silence of his flat is too big, too still. He lies back on the couch, meaning to close his eyes for just a minute but sleep quickly drags him under, the emotional exhaustion from today catching up to him.

Banging wakes him hours later. It’s early, sunlight cutting through the blinds in thin strips. His head feels heavy as he realises that noise is coming from someone knocking at his front door.

“Coming!” he calls, stumbling out of bed, tugging on a hoodie. His feet are bare when he swings open the door, and freezes.

Lando’s standing there.

Still in his travel clothes, hoodie creased, beanie pulled low. His hair peeking out is a mess, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. There’s a tremor of something raw and unguarded in his expression.

“Lando?” Oscar’s voice catches. “What are you… how are you here? You’re meant to be in Brazil.”

Lando doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales, a shaky laugh leaving him. Then he steps forward and cups Oscar’s face with both hands, gentle but certain. Lando steps forward, voice rough from hours in the air. “Do you know what you said to me on the phone?”

Oscar blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

Lando steps closer, slow and deliberate, voice low. “Before the hearing, you were rushing, Mark was knocking on the door. You said it so quick I almost thought I’d imagined it.”

Oscar’s frown deepens, trying to replay the moment in his head. “I don’t…” He stops short when he sees Lando’s expression, that small, uneven smile, the one he gets when he’s nervous but trying not to show it. “What did I say?”

“You told me you love me,” Lando says quietly.

It takes a full three seconds for the words to land, for Oscar’s brain to connect the dots. ‘You told me you love me.’

His mouth falls open. “I… what?”

“Yeah,” Lando says quietly. “You said it right before hanging up.” His smile is small, warm, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty behind it, like he’s bracing for Oscar to take it back.

Oscar’s heart lurches. He stumbles a step backwards, heat flooding his face. “Oh my god,” he mutters, half to himself. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean.. not like that, I mean, not that I don’t…” He presses his palms to his eyes, mortified. “Oh god, I didn’t even realise I said it.”

Lando lets him spiral for a moment, watching the panic unravel. Then he moves closer, his voice calm, patient. “Osc, breathe.”

Oscar looks up, chest still heaving a little. “You flew back from Brazil because I… because I said that?”

Lando nods once. “Because you said it. And because I needed to tell you, that I love you too.”

It stops Oscar cold. The world seems to narrow to the space between them, to the way Lando’s thumb brushes his jaw like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Oscar’s breath catches. His chest tightens in that way that feels both terrifying and inevitable. “You’re not just saying that because I…”

Lando shakes his head, smiling faintly. “No, Osc. I’m saying it because I mean it.”

Something inside Oscar gives way, a mix of relief and emotion he’s been holding in for months. His voice comes out small. “You love me?”

Lando nods again, barely a whisper now. “I love you.”

Oscar exhales shakily. “Say it again,” he whispers, almost pleading.

Lando steps forward, close enough for Oscar to feel his breath. “I love you.”

And that’s what finally breaks him. Oscar lets out a tiny, disbelieving laugh before grabbing the front of Lando’s hoodie and pulling him in. The kiss that follows is messy and unguarded, all their feelings spilling out in one breathless rush.

Lando’s hands slide to Oscar’s waist, steadying him, his thumb drawing slow circles against his hip as if to ground him. Oscar melts into it, fingers trembling slightly against Lando’s chest.

When they finally pull apart, Oscar’s voice is unsteady, almost dazed. “You really flew all the way back just to tell me that?”

Lando grins, forehead resting against his. “Wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise.”

“I love you,” Oscar says, voice barely above a whisper but full of affection.

Lando laughs, low and quiet, then leans in and kisses him again. The kind of kiss that’s deep and sure and so full of relief it steals the air from both of them. Oscar tilts his head just enough to let Lando’s tongue brush against his, the warmth of it sending sparks through him.

He breathes Lando’s name against his mouth, barely a sound, and that’s all it takes for Lando to press him gently back toward the hallway. The door swings shut behind them with a dull thud. Lando walks them backwards through the hall, kissing like he’s been holding his breath for days. Oscar bumps into the wall, laughing against Lando’s mouth, and the sound only seems to spur him on.

Lando pulls back when the need for air becomes too much. He doesn’t move away, he just wraps his arms tighter around Oscar, his head resting on top of Oscar’s, both taking the moment to catch their breathes.

Oscar’s pulse is thrumming loudly, he can feel the thrum of it against Lando’s chest, where his cheek rests. It feels impossible that a few hours ago, he was standing in front of the FIA board, hands trembling, rehearsing every sentence under his breath. Now Lando’s here with the same warmth that’s been grounding him for months.

Oscar doesn’t know how long they stay there, pressed close, the room thick with quiet. At some point, Lando tilts his chin down, brushing another slow kiss across his lips. It settles deep in Oscar’s chest and leaves him feeling both weightless and anchored.

His thoughts keep spinning, caught between disbelief and clarity. He’s spent so much of his life trying to control things, his image, his driving, his emotions. This feels like the first thing he’s stopped trying to control.

When Lando pulls back, his forehead resting against Oscar’s, his voice is soft. “You okay?”

Oscar nods, though the movement’s small, almost hesitant. “Yeah,” he says, his throat tight. “More than okay, actually.”

Lando smiles, thumb tracing idle circles against his jaw. “Good.”

There’s another pause. Oscar doesn’t know how to say it, not without overthinking, but he’s never been clearer about anything. The fear is still there, quiet and familiar, but it’s outweighed now by something else.

“Lando,” he says quietly, lifting his head. Lando hums in response, brushing a strand of hair off Oscar’s forehead. “I think I’m ready.”

Lando stills, the movement small but noticeable. “Ready for what?” he asks, voice careful.

Oscar swallows hard, meeting his eyes. His heart hammers against his ribs, the words fragile but honest. “I want to have sex. With you.”

Lando doesn’t speak straight away. He studies him, eyes soft but searching, as if trying to gauge whether Oscar means it or if it’s the adrenaline talking. “Are you sure?” he asks finally, his tone low.

Oscar nods. “Yeah,” he says, quieter this time, but certain. “I’ve known for a while that I wanted it to be you. And I’m ready. Really ready.”

Lando studies him for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reaches up, brushing his thumb gently along Oscar’s cheek, like he’s memorising the moment. “Okay,” he whispers. “I’m really happy you trust me enough for this.”

“I do,” he says, voice also barely above a whisper. “I really do.”

When Lando kisses him again, it’s unhurried and Oscar’s nerves melt into something softer, something real. Lando’s hands slide down to Oscar’s waist, thumbs catching in the belt loops of his suit pants as he tugs him gently toward the bedroom, and all Oscar can to do is follow.

They move together, steps falling into sync, mouths finding each other again in quick, breathless kisses that keep interrupting their progress. Lando’s fingers work at the buttons of Oscar’s shirt as they walk, popping them open one by one, cool air brushing Oscar’s skin. The exposure makes his breath hitch, not from the cold, but from the way it feels to be seen like this, chosen like this.

Oscar retaliates by tugging Lando’s hoodie over his head, dragging it up and off until it drops somewhere behind them. Lando’s chest is warm under his palms, solid, the familiar faint trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. He lets himself feel it all.

By the time they reach the bedroom, shirts abandoned in a messy trail, the air feels thicker, heavier. The door clicks shut behind them and Lando backs Oscar into it gently, mouth tracing from his lips to his jaw, then down the line of his throat. Oscar tilts his head back with a soft gasp when Lando’s teeth graze his skin, not hard, just enough to spark something electric.

Lando’s hands move lower, tugging apart the button and zipper of Oscar’s pants with practiced ease. Oscar steps out of his pants , kicking them aside, left in just his boxers, his erection already straining against the fabric. Lando strips too, movements easy and unselfconscious, and when Oscar looks at him properly, heat floods his face. Lando only smiles and draws him toward the bed.

They fall onto the mattress together, limbs tangling, laughter breaking through the tension before it settles into something slower. Lando stays on top for a moment, his weight grounding rather than pinning, kisses turning languid and exploratory.

Lando's lips start trailing a scorching path down Oscar's chest, each kiss a deliberate press that sends shivers racing across his skin. He nips at the taut muscles, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting before sucking hard enough to draw blood to the surface, leaving blooming red marks like possessive brands, first over Oscar's collarbone, then lower, mapping the ridges of his pecs with wet, open mouthed attention. The feeling is new and intense. Oscar’s breath hitches, fingers threading through Lando's curls as the heat builds, his body arching instinctively into the touch, every pull of suction pulling a soft gasp from his throat. The marks throb faintly, a delicious ache that heightens the anticipation coiling in his gut.

Finally, Lando reaches Oscar's nipple, circling the pebbled bud with his tongue in lazy swirls before latching on fully, sucking with firm, rhythmic pressure that borders on the edge of pain and pleasure. His teeth graze the sensitive tip, tugging lightly, while one hand braces against Oscar's side, thumb stroking the skin in reassurance. Oscar moans low, the sensation shooting straight to his cock, making it twitch against his thigh as waves of electric need ripple through him. Lando hums against the flesh, the vibration intensifying everything, his free hand sliding lower to tease the waistband of Oscar's briefs, drawing out the torment with expert patience.

Oscar lets himself breathe through it for a few seconds longer, fingers still tangled in Lando’s hair, heat coiling low in his stomach. Then something sharp and unfamiliar cuts through the haze. A thought, sudden and loud.

What happens next?

His body tenses without meaning to. He inhales too fast, chest hitching, and Lando feels it immediately.

“Hey,” Lando murmurs, lifting his head, attention snapping back into place. “What’s going on?”

Oscar’s hands slip free from Lando’s curls, hovering uselessly for a second before dropping to his sides. “Lando,” he says, voice quieter now. “Can we… can we pause for a sec?”

Lando stills instantly, pulling back just enough to see his face. “Yeah. Of course.” He shifts his weight so he’s not crowding him, hand settling warm and grounding at Oscar’s waist. “Talk to me.”

Oscar swallows. His heart is beating far too fast now, the anticipation tipping into nerves he cannot ignore. “I just…” He huffs out a breath, half laugh, half wince. “I think my brain finally caught up.”

Lando’s brow creases, not worried yet, just attentive. “What do you mean?”

“To the part where this stops being just… touching,” Oscar says. His cheeks burn but he pushes through it. “And I realised I don’t actually know what I’m meant to do. Or what you’re expecting. Or what position I’m supposed to be in.” He grimaces. “And then my brain went straight to the idea of bottoming and I kind of panicked.”

Lando blinks, then softens immediately. “Okay.”

“I’m not saying I don’t want this,” Oscar rushes to add. “I do. I just… that part scares me. A bit. A lot, actually.”

Lando nods slowly, thumb brushing a reassuring line along Oscar’s hip. “Thank you for telling me.”

Oscar exhales shakily. “I don’t want to disappoint you, if that’s what you were expecting.”

“You’re not,” Lando says at once. “And I wasn’t.” He shifts so they’re eye level, calm and steady. “Positions aren’t rules, Osc. They’re just options.” He shrugs lightly. “Honestly, I don’t really have a preference. I like doing both. Just depends on the person, the mood, the moment.”

Oscar blinks. “Both?”

“Yeah,” Lando says easily. “Always have.”

Oscar hesitates. “So you wouldn’t mind if I… didn’t want to bottom? I mean at least not tonight. I do want to, to try at some stage. Just… not right now,” Oscar rushes out.

“Not at all,” Lando replies. “Honestly, considering this is your first time having sex in any capacity, I think it makes more sense for you to top.”

Oscar’s breath catches. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Lando says, like it’s obvious. “This way we can go at your pace. You get to take your time and figure out what you like, what you don’t. No pressure to do anything that feels overwhelming straight away.” His smile turns gentle. “We can save everything else for later, if and when you want it.”

Something inside Oscar loosens all at once. “Oh,” he says quietly. Relief floods him, warm and grounding, settling in his chest where the nerves have been twisting tight. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to hear that until the tension drains away. “That actually… helps,” Oscar admits. “A lot.”

Lando smiles, thumb brushing his side again. “Good. That was the goal.”

Oscar lets himself lean closer, forehead resting briefly against Lando’s shoulder, breathing him in. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For not making it a thing.”

Lando presses a kiss into his hair. “It’s only ever a thing if you’re not okay.”

Oscar nods, calmer now, steadier, the desire still there but no longer tangled with fear. When he looks back up at Lando, there’s a small, relieved smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay,” he says. “I’m good. Let’s keep going.”

Lando’s answering laugh is bright. “I’m good with that.”

They ease back into it, touches rediscovering each other. Lando eventually leans back and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his own briefs, shoving them down his hips in one fluid motion, his hard cock springing free and bobbing against his thigh. He kicks the fabric aside, eyes locked on Oscar's with that familiar mix of hunger and reassurance, before reaching for Oscar's underwear. Oscar lifts his hips instinctively, heart pounding as Lando peels the briefs away, exposing his throbbing cock to the cool air of the bedroom. It stands rigid, tip already glistening with pre-cum, and Lando's gaze darkens with appreciation, a low hum escaping his throat as he tosses the underwear to the floor.

He shifts down the bed, settling between Oscar's spread legs, his hands gripping Oscar's thighs to part them wider. Oscar's breath catches, muscles tensing under the firm hold, the vulnerability of the position sending a rush of heat through him. Lando leans in, lips brushing the sensitive skin of Oscar's inner thigh.

“God,” he murmurs, playful, “I’m obsessed with these.”

Oscar laughs, tension breaking. “My thighs?”

“Oh yeah, completely serious,” Lando says, grinning before his teeth sink in, not hard enough to break skin, but sharp enough to sting and mark, drawing a sharp gasp from Oscar as the bite blooms into a dull throb. Lando soothes it with a swipe of his tongue, then trails kisses upward, closer to where Oscar aches most.

Without warning, Lando wraps his lips around the head of Oscar's cock, sucking gently at first, tongue swirling over the slit to lap up the salty bead of pre-cum. Oscar's hips buck involuntarily, a moan tearing from his chest as the wet heat envelops him. Lando takes him deeper, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head with steady rhythm, one hand stroking the base while the other massages Oscar's thigh, keeping him grounded. The suction pulls tight, pleasure coiling fast in Oscar's gut, his fingers twisting in the sheets as waves of sensation build too quickly, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Lando wait… stop,” Oscar pants out, voice strained and desperate, his hand flying to Lando's hair to tug him back gently. Lando pulls off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, concern flickering in his eyes as he looks up. “I'm gonna come if you keep going like that.” His chest heaves, cock twitching untouched in the air, the edge of release hovering dangerously close.

“Bet I can make you go twice,” Lando smirks but he does move back up Oscar’s body and places a kiss on his lips.

Oscar laughs. “You can give it a go another time, maybe when it’s not my first time.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Lando says as he draws back, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a smug smile. “Wait here.”

“Wait what? Where are you going?” Oscar says as he props himself up on his elbows, watching as Lando straightens. Lando’s own erection jutting proudly and untouched between his legs, skin flushed from the heat of the moment.

Lando flashes a quick, knowing smile, glancing toward the front door where his bag sits just inside. “To grab something,” he replies, tone light and reassuring. “I’ll be right back.”

Oscar watches as he heads back into the hallway, gaze instinctively dropping to the sway of Lando’s hips as he crosses the threshold, flexing with each stride as he walks away. Oscar sinks back against the pillows, a mix of anticipation and impatience bubbling up.

“Lube and a condom,” Lando says as he walks back into the bedroom, his fingers closing around the both items, and he meets Oscar's gaze, a silent question lingering in his eyes. “I'll handle the prep myself, yeah? Get everything loosened up so you can just... ease in without any hassle.”

But Oscar feels a rush of determination bubbling up, overriding the flutter of nerves in his stomach. He wants to be involved, to understand every step, to make this shared in the most intimate way. “No, wait… can I do it? I want to try, learn how it works. I… I want to do it.” His voice comes out steadier than he expects, laced with genuine curiosity.

Lando's face lights up with a mix of surprise and approval. He sets the lube down for a moment and brushes a thumb over Oscar's knuckles. “Fuck, Osc. Yes, I'd love that, yes.”

Lando nudges Oscar to swap positions. Oscar does so, getting to his knees as Lando lays in the space he’d just vacated. Lando shifts one of the pillows under his lower back, drawing his knees up toward his chest and parting his thighs wide, offering himself completely. The sight hits Oscar hard, the exposed crease of Lando's arse, the pinkish pucker nestled there, vulnerable and inviting. It's a profound act of trust, one that makes Oscar's chest tighten and his cock twitch in anticipation.

Oscar grabs the bottle, flipping the cap open with slightly trembling hands, and squeezes a thick dollop of the clear gel onto his index finger. The substance is cool and slippery against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Lando's body. He coats his finger thoroughly, then sets the bottle aside, positioning himself closer between Lando's legs. His free hand rests on Lando's inner thigh, feeling the muscle tense and then relax under his palm. He lets out a shaky breath, his gaze searching for guidance in Lando’s.

“You okay?” Lando asks.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes out.

“Okay,” Lando says, his tone even and instructional, like a patient teacher. “Use that one finger first. Just circle around the outside, tease the rim, get me warmed up and used to the pressure.”

Oscar leans in, his breath ghosting over Lando's skin as he traces the tight ring of muscle. It's softer than he imagined, warm and slightly ridged, twitching faintly at the first touch of his slick finger. He moves in slow, deliberate circles, applying light pressure that builds gradually, watching as Lando's entrance flutters in response, the lube making everything glide smoothly.

Lando exhales steadily, his eyes half-lidded. “Fuck, that’s it Osc. Push in slowly,” Oscar presses forward, the tip of his finger meeting resistance, a firm, unyielding barrier that gives way bit by bit. Inch by inch, he sinks inside. It's tighter than anything Oscar's ever felt and he has to pause when he's fully in, up to the second knuckle, letting Lando adjust. Lando lets out a low moan, his body softening, the inner walls rippling gently.

“Yeah, just like that,” Lando murmurs. “You can move now, just go back and forth.”

Oscar pulls out halfway, then pushes back in, the motion creating a wet, sucking sound from the lube. The friction is exquisite, the heat pulsing around his digit, and he experiments with the angle, watching Lando's reactions, the subtle arch of his back, the way his lips part on a soft breath. Each withdrawal makes the muscle pucker slightly, reluctant to let go, and each re-entry draws a quiet hum from Lando. Oscar's mesmerised by the control he has, the intimate power of opening someone up like this.

After a minute or so, Lando nods, his hand coming to rest lightly on Oscar's. “Add a second finger, just make sure to add more lube, keeps everything slick.”

Oscar withdraws carefully, the sudden emptiness making Lando's hole clench around nothing, and he squirts another generous amount onto his fingers, rubbing them together to warm the gel. He aligns both his index and middle finger at the entrance, pressing them in tandem. The stretch is immediate and more pronounced, Oscar feels the added pressure, the way the walls expand to accommodate the intrusion.

Lando breathes deeper, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “Start scissoring your fingers, it'll stretch me wider, get me more ready for you.”

Oscar twists his wrist slightly and starts alternating between opening and closing his fingers, each spread eliciting a low moan from Lando, whose hips shift subtly, chasing the sensation. The walls massage his fingers, slick and responsive, and Oscar marvels at the adaptability, the way Lando's body opens under his touch.

“God, keep going Osc,” Lando encourages, voice dropping an octave, breathier now. “Curve your fingers upwards, towards my stomach.”

Oscar does as Lando says and bends his fingers, hooking them gently as he thrusts deeper, the pads brushing along the front wall until they nudge a firm, small bump. Lando jolts, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, his cock jerking against his abdomen, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling at the slit.

“Fuck! Yes, right there. Keep… keep hitting that spot.”

Oscar focuses there, massaging the prostate with slow, deliberate circles, feeling it swell slightly under his touch. Lando's responses intensify, thighs quivering, breaths coming in ragged bursts, his untouched erection throbbing visibly. Oscar can’t help the swell of power that surges through him, a heady mix of arousal and awe. His own cock aches untouched, leaking steadily onto the sheets, all his attention firmly on Lando in this moment. He stays locked on the task, alternating between hitting Lando’s prostate and scissoring to build the stretch. Lando's moans grow freer, hips canting up to meet his movements.

A few minutes pass, the rhythm building confidence in Oscar, until Lando's voice breaks through, husky and urgent. “Third, you can add a third finger.”

The fullness is intense when he add the third finger. Lando pants through it, muscles fluttering wildly at the stretch. Oscar works them deeper, twisting to ease the intrusion, feeling the inner walls part and mold to the shape.

“God, Osc, you're perfect,” Lando gasps, eyes locked on Oscar's with raw desire. Oscar spreads his fingers as far as they go, the stretch pulling a guttural groan from Lando, then hooks them to resume the prostate massage, relentless and targeted. Lando writhes beneath him, body slick with sweat, cock dripping a steady stream onto his stomach. The praises tumble out in fragments, “So good, just like that... fuck, you learn fast,” each one fuelling Oscar's focus, the intimate rawness of it all making his pulse thunder. The room fills with the lewd symphony of lube-slicked movements, breaths heaving, bodies attuned in this preparatory dance.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of building tension, Lando stills Oscar's hand with a firm grip on his wrist. “Okay, that's… that’s good. I'm open, I’m ready. God I need you in me now Osc.”

Oscar slides his fingers free slowly, the drag eliciting a final, desperate whine from Lando as his hole clenches around nothing, glistening and prepared.

Oscar’s heart is racing as he reaches for the condom, fingers fumbling to grip the packet, the crinkle of the foil loud in the charged silence. His hands tremble, nerves twisting in his gut like a knot he can’t untie, the reality of what’s about to happen crashing over him. The shake in his grip makes the packet slip once, then twice, the frustration bubbling alongside the desire.

“Hey,” Lando murmurs, his steady voice cutting through the frustration. He covers Oscar’s hands with his own, warm and steady fingers guiding his to tear open to packet. “I’ve got you.”

Together they free the condom from its wrapper, Lando’s touch gentle as he rolls it down Oscar’s length. Oscar watches, breath hitching at the sensation, the cool slide of the latex contrasting with the heat of Lando’s fingers brushing his skin.

Once it’s on, Lando leans forward, capturing Oscar’s mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. Their lips move in sync, tongues tangling with a heat that builds quickly. Hands roam, Oscar tracing the curve of Lando’s waist, Lando cupping Oscar’s jaw. The kiss stretches, bodies pressing closer until the urgency beneath simmers too strong.

Lando pulls back just enough to meet Oscar’s eyes, his own dark with want but softened with concern. “You sure about this Osc?”

Oscar nods, swallowing hard, the yes tumbling out of him firm despite the flutter in his chest. “Yeah, absolutely.”

Oscar reaches for the lube again, pouring a thick line along his throbbing length, stroking himself to spread it evenly. The glide over his sensitive skin makes him hiss, veins pulsing under his palm, every nerve ending alive with anticipation.

He can hear the pulse of his heart hammering in his chest as he kneels between Lando's spread thighs, his cock heavy and throbbing in his fist. The head is flushed deep red, glistening under the bedroom's soft light. Lando watches him with hooded eyes, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, his own erection lying spent against his belly but twitching faintly with renewed interest. The air between them crackles with anticipation, thick and electric, every nerve in Oscar's body attuned to the man beneath him.

“Come here,” Lando says softly, extending a hand to guide Oscar closer. His voice is rough around the edges, laced with that reassuring warmth that always steadies Oscar. “Line up with me, tip right at the entrance. Don't push yet, just rest there, let me feel you.”

Oscar shifts forward on his knees, the mattress dipping under his weight, and presses the blunt head of his cock against Lando's prepared hole. The contact is immediate and intense, Lando fluttering against him like a living pulse. It's nothing like the cool slide of his hand or the imagined grip of a fist, this is real, alive, and Oscar's breath catches at the sheer vulnerability of it.

Lando's hand moves to Oscar's hip, thumb stroking the skin there in encouragement. “Breathe, Osc. When you're ready, ease forward slowly. I'll tell you if it's too much.”

Oscar nods, swallowing hard, and focuses on the sensation, the heat seeping into his tip, the way Lando's body seems to beckon him in with subtle twitches. He rocks his hips incrementally, the pressure building until the tight barrier parts with a slick give. The head pops past the rim, and Oscar gasps sharply, the sudden clamp of velvety walls around his most sensitive part sending a jolt straight up his spine.

“Fuck,” The word slips out unbidden, raw and breathless. Inside, it's tighter than he could have dreamed, a scorching tunnel that grips him like it never wants to let go. The lube eases the way, but the friction is exquisite, every ridge and fold massaging his length as he sinks deeper, inch by torturous inch. Lando's arse swallows him whole, the inner muscles rippling in response, pulling him in. Oscar's eyes squeeze shut for a moment, overwhelmed by the heat enveloping him.

Lando moans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through both of them, his fingers digging into Oscar's hip just enough to ground him. “Yeah, that's it... keep going. You're doing so good. Feel how I'm taking you? All the way in.” His voice is strained but steady.

Oscar opens his eyes, locking onto Lando's face, flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes dark with pleasure, and pushes further, feeling his cock slide past the halfway point. The stretch is evident in the way Lando's hole clenches and releases, adjusting to the girth, and Oscar pauses when he's buried to the hilt, balls pressed snug against Lando's perineum, pubic bones flush.

The fullness hits them both like a wave. Oscar's buried deep, his entire length throbbing inside the tight heat, every pulse of his heartbeat echoing in the grip around him. Lando’s arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him down so every inch of him is pressed flush against Lando.

Oscar, feeling overwhelmed, presses his face into the curve of Lando’s neck. The way Lando's walls undulate gently, massaging him from base to tip, the subtle shifts that send sparks of pleasure radiating outward. He can feel Lando's body everywhere, the quiver of thighs bracketing his hips, the rise of his chest, the way his cock twitches against Oscar's stomach as their bodies align. Emotion swells in Oscar's chest, a profound mix of awe and tenderness, this is trust made physical, giving himself over to Lando completely.

“Take a second,” Lando whispers, turning his head toward Oscar's face, pulling him up for a deep kiss. Their mouths meet messy and urgent, tongues sliding together as Oscar holds still, letting the sensations settle. The kiss grounds him, Lando's lips soft and insistent, nipping at his bottom lip before soothing with a lick. When they break apart, Lando's grin is cheeky despite the strain. “When you’re ready, you can start moving.”

Oscar takes a deep breath, pulls back marginally, and experiments tentatively at first. He draws his hips back until just the head remains lodged inside, the drag pulling a wet, obscene sound from their joined bodies. The suction is intense, Lando's hole reluctant to release him, clinging with every millimetre. Then he pushes forward again, slower this time, savouring the slide, the way Lando’s walls part and reform around his cock, building friction that makes his toes curl.

Lando's response is immediate, a deep groan, head tipping back into the pillows, his hands roaming Oscar's back, nails scraping lightly over sweat-damp skin.

Emboldened, Oscar sets a gentle pace, hips rolling in shallow thrusts that let him feel every nuance. Each withdrawal teases the sensitive underside of his shaft against the rim, sending shivers through him, while each re-entry buries him in that perfect heat, the head nudging deep inside. He angles his hips experimentally, watching Lando's face for cues, the way his brows furrow when Oscar brushes his prostate spot again, drawing a sharp inhale and a buck of hips.

“There… fuck, right there, Osc. Harder on that angle.” Lando's guidance is breathy now, less instructional and more needy, arms and legs wrapping around Oscar's waist to pull him closer.

The rhythm builds naturally, Oscar's thrusts deepening, the slap of skin on skin growing louder, punctuated by the squelch of lube. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping onto Lando's chest as he leans forward, bracing on his forearms to change the angle. From this position, he can watch everything, Lando's cock trapped between them, rubbing against Oscar's abdomen with each thrust, leaking steadily, the way Lando's arse clenches around him on every pull out, pink and stretched around his girth, the flex of muscles under flushed skin. The pleasure coils tight in Oscar's gut, a building pressure unlike anything he's known, raw, all-consuming, amplified by the emotional weight of it all.

Lando's moans fill the room, unrestrained and melodic, his hands clutching at Oscar's shoulders. “God, you feel amazing, so thick, filling me up. Faster, I need…” he trails off into another moan.

Oscar obeys the urging in Lando’s voice, picking up speed, hips snapping forward with more force. The friction ignites, his cock angling in and out of the slick channel, the heat turning molten around him.

Each thrust hits that sweet spot inside Lando, making him arch and cry out, his body trembling beneath Oscar's. The power of it surges through Oscar, the control, the way he's unravelling Lando piece by piece, their bodies locked in this primal dance.

But it's not just physical, waves of connection crash over Oscar with every movement. Lando's eyes stay on his, holding that gaze even as pleasure twists his features, whispering praises between gasps,
“Look at you… fucking me so well for your first time. Knew you'd be perfect.” The words fuel Oscar's drive, his thrusts turning erratic as the coil tightens unbearably.

Lando's hand snakes between them, wrapping around his own cock, stroking in time with Oscar's rhythm. The sight pushes Oscar closer to the edge, the flush of Lando's fist, the way his hole spasms around Oscar's length in response.

Lando comes first, body seizing as his orgasm rips through him. “Osc! Fuck, I'm…” His words cut off in a strangled moan, cock pulsing in his grip, ropes of cum splattering across his chest and Oscar's stomach.

The clench of his arse is vice-like, milking Oscar's cock with rhythmic squeezes that drag him over the brink. Oscar buries himself deep one last time, hips stuttering as release crashes through him. He comes with a guttural cry, spilling hot and thick into the condom whilst he’s deep inside Lando, pulse after pulse flooding the tight space. The sensation is blinding, waves of ecstasy radiating from his core, his vision blurring as he rides it out, body locked against Lando's.

They collapse together in a tangle of limbs, Oscar still sheathed inside, softening slowly as aftershocks ripple through them. Breaths mingle in heavy pants, Lando's arms wrapping around Oscar's back, holding him close.

“That was... incredible,” Lando murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to Oscar's temple and neck.

Oscar lifts his head, meeting Lando's sated gaze, a shy smile breaking through the exhaustion. He feels spent, utterly wrung out, but in the best way possible. The sheets are tangled around them, skin warm and flushed. Lando lies on his back, one arm curled around Oscar’s shoulders, the other tracing slow, absentminded patterns down his spine.

For a while, neither of them speaks. It’s the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty, both of them still caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. Lando turns his head slightly, his lips brushing against Oscar’s hair.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice low, careful.

Oscar shifts, smiling into his chest. “Yeah,” he says softly. He tilts his head up, grinning wide enough that it crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I feel fantastic, actually.”

Lando laughs quietly, the sound a mix of relief and affection. “Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s forehead. “That’s kind of the goal.”

Oscar hums, still grinning, a little dazed but content. He rolls onto his side so he can see Lando properly. Their eyes meet, and for a moment it feels like the rest of the world has stopped existing.

“I love you,” Lando says quietly, thumb brushing over Oscar’s cheek.

Oscar’s chest tightens in the best way. He leans forward until their lips meet again and whispers against his mouth, “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets and the two bodies sprawled across Oscar's bed. Oscar stirs first, his eyelids fluttering open to the unfamiliar ache in his muscles, a good ache, the kind that reminds him of every thrust and every gasp from the night before. He's still buzzing, that high from having sex with Lando for the first time thrumming through his veins like adrenaline after a race. His cock twitches at the memory, Lando's tight heat clenching around him, the way he'd moaned Oscar's name, guiding him through it all with those steady hands and reassuring words. Fuck, it was better than he'd ever imagined, connecting them in a way that makes his chest tighten even now. The sheets smell like them, a mix of sweat and lube and something uniquely Lando, and it pulls Oscar deeper into the haze of satisfaction.

Beside him, Lando sleeps on his side facing toward Oscar, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm draped loosely over Oscar's hip. His breathing is even, soft, and Oscar takes a moment to just look, really look, at the man he loves. Lando's lips are still a bit swollen from their kisses, and there are faint half-moon shaped indents run along his shoulders where Oscar hadn’t realised he’d been gripping that tightly.

Lower, the sheet rides low on Lando's waist, exposing the curve of his arse, and Oscar's gaze lingers there, heat pooling in his gut. He's already half-hard, the morning light doing nothing to dim the want that's been simmering since he woke. Lando's skin looks so soft in the daylight, freckles dusting his shoulders, back and chest like stars, and Oscar reaches out almost without thinking, tracing a finger along the line of Lando's chest, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breaths. The touch makes Lando shift slightly, a quiet sigh escaping him, but he doesn't wake. Oscar's heart picks up, a nervous thrill mixing with the desire.

Last night had been a series of learning everything new, it was overwhelming, but Lando had made it feel right, safe. Now, in the quiet of morning, Oscar wants more. He wants to feel that connection again, to push past the initial awkwardness and chase the pleasure they'd found. His hand continues its path, sliding over Lando's hip. Oscar's cock hardens fully as it presses against Lando’s thighs.

“Lando,” Oscar murmurs, voice rough with sleep and need, lips grazing the shell of Lando's ear. He presses closer, his chest flush against Lando, one leg hooking over Lando's to hold him there.

Lando shifts slightly, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth as his eyes blink open slowly and he meets Oscar's gaze. “Mmm, morning,” he says, voice husky with lingering sleep. He stretches his body as much as he can with Oscar still wrapped around him, his body arches slightly, putting more pressure through Oscar's erection and the contact sends a jolt straight through him. Lando doesn't pull away thought, instead he pushes into it, grinding slow circles that make Oscar's breath hitch. Lando's own cock stirs against him, and he lets out a contented hum. “It’s a very good morning indeed,” he smirks.

Oscar's cheeks heat, but he doesn't shy away, not after last night. He presses a kiss to Lando's shoulder, nipping lightly at the skin, tasting the salt of him. His hand slides, feeling bolder now, cupping Lando's arse, thumb stroking the fleshy muscle there while his other arm wraps around Lando's waist, pulling him tighter. The heat between them builds, both their hardening cocks trapped between them, sliding against each other with each subtle shift. “Can we… I mean, I want… can we go again? Please?”

Lando chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Oscar's. He faces Oscar fully, their legs tangling as he does. His eyes are dark, pupils blown with interest, and he reaches up to cup Oscar's jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “I’m assuming that means you’re okay? After last night? You’re not regretting anything?”

Oscar takes a breath, searching for the right words. “I don’t regret it Lando. I wanted it to happen, and I wanted it with you. I want you.”

Lando exhales, relief written across his face. “Good, I just… I needed to make sure. It means a lot that you chose me.”

Oscar feels himself pulling Lando even closer. “I know, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Lando says, certain and warm, and Oscar doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to hearing those words come out of Lando’s mouth. “So…” Lando continues, he smile turning into something playful and wicked, “you want to fuck me again?” He shift suddenly, shifting his legs to let one hook over Oscar's thigh. The movement causing Oscar to let out a moan as their cocks dragged against each other again. “Reckon I'm still stretched from last night, all loose and ready for you.”

“Yeah?” Oscar asks, nerves starting to overshadow some of that confidence he’d woken up with now that the prospect of it happening again is in front of him.

“Oh yeah,” Lando smiles as he starts moving his hips in steady circular movements.

The words and Lando’s movements hit Oscar like a punch, his cock throbbing against Lando's. He groans, leaning in to capture Lando's mouth, the kiss turning hungrier from the start. Their lips meet in a startling clash, tongues brushing in a familiar dance that deepens quickly, Lando sucking on Oscar's tongue, teeth grazing his lip. Oscar's hands roam experimentally, one sliding up Lando's chest to pinch a nipple, rolling it between his fingers until Lando arches into the touch with a muffled moan. The other hand trails down, nails scraping over Lando's abs, feeling them flex under his palm.

They break apart only when air becomes necessary, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. Lando's free hand trails down Oscar's chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipples in retaliation, making Oscar hiss.

“You were amazing last night,” Lando whispers, voice rough. He strokes down further, wrapping his fingers around Oscar's length, stroking slow and firm from base to tip. Pre-cum slicks the way, and Oscar bucks into the touch, hips rolling instinctively.

“Lando,” Oscar breathes, breaking the eye contact to trail his lips down Lando's neck, latching his lips onto Lando’s neck and sucking instinctively. He soothes his tongue over the spot, trying to copy the actions Lando had done last night.

He feels Lando’s other hand wrap around his wrist, dragging his hand lower until it’s nudging Lando’s cock. Oscar gets what Lando’s insinuating and grips Lando's cock, mirroring his actions and starts pumping in tandem. Lando's shaft is hot and hard in his fist, veins prominent under his skin, and Oscar swipes his thumb over the slit, spreading the wetness. Lando moans, head tipping back into the pillow, exposing more of his throat for Oscar to devour.

“God I love it when you touch me like that,” Lando encourages, his strokes on Oscar speeding up, twisting at the head. “You’ve gotten so good at this now, don’t even need me to tell you what I like anymore, you just know.” Their hands work in sync, the room filling with the slick sounds of skin on skin, breaths growing ragged.

Oscar's free hand explores lower, cupping Lando's balls, rolling them gently, feeling them draw up. Lando spreads his legs wider in response, knees falling open, and Oscar takes the invitation, letting his fingers dip between Lando's cheeks.

He feels the lingering openness from the night before, the way Lando's hole twitches under his tentative touch, still slick and sensitive. Oscar circles the rim with one finger, pressing in easily, the heat and give making his head spin. Lando gasps, cock jerking in Oscar's hand. Lando pants, rocking back onto the digit. “Still loose for you, reckon you can add another already.”

Oscar's breath catches, nerves still flickering but slowly being drowned out now by the rush of desire. He explores with careful strokes, sliding his finger deeper, feeling the velvety walls clench around him. It's looser than last night, Lando's body remembering, welcoming, and that alone makes Oscar's heart pound. He adds a second finger, scissoring gently to test, the glide smooth from residual lube. The movements already feeling a lot more natural to Oscar. Lando moans softly, head tipping back further, and Oscar curls his fingers, brushing that spot inside that had Lando gasping before. Lando's body reacts instantly, hips bucking up, cock leaking steadily over Oscar's knuckles.

“Fuck, Osc, right there,” Lando groans, his hand faltering on Oscar's cock as pleasure overtakes him. He squeezes Oscar's length once, hard, before resuming the strokes, but slower now, like he’s savouring the moment.

Oscar watches, mesmerised, as Lando's face contorts in bliss, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. He thrusts his fingers deeper, twisting them, mimicking what he'll do with his cock soon. The scent of arousal hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the morning freshness, and Oscar leans down to kiss Lando's chest, tongue flicking over a nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Lando arches, fingers threading into Oscar's hair, holding him there. “God yes, suck harder, bite a little.” Oscar obliges, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, pulling a whine from Lando. He switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention, while his fingers pump steadily inside. Lando's hole flutters around them, growing even more pliant, and Oscar withdraws them reluctantly, slick with lube, to grab the bottle from the nightstand.

“Condom?” Oscar asks, voice strained.

“Yeah,” Lando nods, eyes locked on Oscar's, dark with lust. “In my bag, front pocket.”

Oscar finds it as quick as he can, desperate to get back to Lando and the heat surrounding him. He grins when he finds out and passes it to Lando as he squirts more lube onto his fingers and slides them back into Lando, three now, stretching Lando wider.

Lando is quick in tearing the foil packet open with his teeth. His hand wraps around Oscar's cock again, slicking him up thoroughly, the glide obscene and hot. Oscar hisses, hips jerking forward as Lando works him over, thumb circling the head, dipping into the slit.

Once the condom's rolled on, Oscar's hands steadier this time, thanks to Lando's guiding touch, their fingers brushing as they smooth it down, they position themselves. Lando stays on his back, knees drawn up to his chest, arse exposed and inviting, hole glistening from the prep. Oscar kneels between his legs, gripping Lando's thighs to spread them wider, the muscles flexing under his palms. He lines up, the tip of his cock nudging against that stretched entrance, and pushes in slow, inch by inch.

Lando's face shows only pleasure, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting on a long moan as he takes him fully. “Oh, fuck, Osc... yes, just like that.”

The slide is smoother than last night, Lando's body yielding easily, walls hugging Oscar's length like they were made for it. Oscar bottoms out with a groan, buried to the hilt in tight, welcoming heat. He pauses, letting them both adjust, hands braced on Lando's thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the skin. The sensation is familiar now but still as overwhelming, every pulse of Lando's body echoing through him.

“Move,” Lando urges after a moment, legs wrapping around Oscar's waist to pull him closer. “I need… I need you to move Osc, need to feel you.”

Oscar starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, the drag exquisite. Lando's cock bounces against his stomach with each push, untouched but leaking steadily, a trail of pre-cum pooling on his abs. Oscar remembers Lando touching himself as they did this last night and reaches down to wrap his hand around it, stroking in time with his hips, thumb swiping over the head on each upstroke.

The rhythm builds gradually, Oscar's confidence growing with Lando's encouragements. “Harder,” Lando pants, nails digging into Oscar's back, leaving red trails. Oscar obliges, pace quickening, driving in with more force, the angle hitting that spot inside Lando that makes him cry out, body arching off the bed. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with their moans, sweat beading on their skin. Oscar leans forward, capturing Lando's mouth in a messy kiss, tongues sliding as he grinds deep, hips circling to rub against that prostate.

Lando breaks the kiss to gasp against Oscar's ear. “I’m gonna turn over so you can take me from behind okay, it’ll feel deeper, better.”

“Okay,” Oscar says as pulls out enough to allow them to shift, Lando rolling onto his stomach, arse up, and Oscar follows, kneeling behind him. He grips Lando's hips, pulling him back so he can thrust in again. Lando was right, the new angle allowing him to go deeper and a loud moan echoes deep from within Oscar’s chest.

Lando pushes back to meet him, arse clenching around Oscar's cock, milking him with each stroke. “Yes, harder, fuck, you're so deep,” Lando groans, face pressed into the pillow, one hand reaching back to spread himself wider.

Oscar's hands roam, one sliding up Lando's back, pressing into rippling muscles of his back, the other wrapping around to jerk Lando's cock again. The pace turns frantic, Oscar's thrusts snapping forward, balls slapping against Lando's. He feels the coil tightening in his gut, pleasure building with every clench, every moan. Lando comes first, spilling over Oscar's fist with a choked cry, walls fluttering tight around him, squeezing like a vice. The sensation tips Oscar over, pleasure crashing through as he thrusts once, twice more before burying deep and filling the condom with hot spurts.

They ride it out together, bodies locked, breaths ragged until Oscar collapses forward, covering Lando's back, still sheathed inside. He presses kisses to Lando's shoulder, tasting sweat, as they both come down. After a long moment, Oscar pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it aside before flopping down beside Lando.

Lando rolls over, grinning sated and sweaty, pulling Oscar into his arms. “That was... brilliant,” he murmurs, fingers threading through Oscar's damp hair. “You’re getting the hang of this”

Oscar laughs breathlessly, nuzzling Lando's neck, the high lingering as warmth spreads through him. They lie there for a long moment afterwards, tangled and content, the room quiet except for the sound of their breathing slowly settling back into something steady.

“You alright?” Lando asks, voice muffled but warm, turning his head just enough to glance back at him.

Oscar exhales softly, letting himself feel it properly. “Yeah,” he says. “Good.” He hesitates for half a second, then adds, “Really good.”

Lando smiles faintly at that, eyes soft. “But?”

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “But I think I prefer being able to see you.”

Lando blinks, then rolls onto his side so they’re face to face, expression curious rather than defensive. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar admits, cheeks still warm. “I liked it, it felt good the way we just did it. I just… I don’t know, I like being able to look at you.”

Something in Lando’s expression shifts, softening even more. He reaches out, brushing his thumb along Oscar’s jaw. “That,” he says gently, “is exactly what figuring this stuff out is for.”

Oscar tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Lando replies, “you try things. Some things click, some things don’t. You work out what you like, what feels better, what makes you feel good.” He nudges Oscar’s nose lightly with his own. “There’s no right answer, just what works for you.”

Oscar lets that sink in, the tension he didn’t realise he was holding easing from his shoulders.

“So next time,” Lando adds, a faint grin tugging at his mouth, “we pick a position where you can stare at me as much as you want.”

Oscar laughs softly, relief and affection mixing in his chest. “Yeah okay,” he says.

Lando presses a slow, easy kiss to his mouth. And Oscar realises, again, that this is what he likes most of all.

…

It’s well after eleven am by the time they eventually untangle themselves from the bedsheets. The world outside is still, sunlight spilling across the kitchen, the smell of Lando’s coffee clinging to the air. Oscar leans against the counter, one leg drawn up on the stool as he watches Lando move around the stove, humming tunelessly, curls sticking up in every direction.

Lando is teasing Oscar about how he takes his toast, “you can’t convince me that Vegemite is normal, Osc, it’s a cry for help”.

Oscar scoffs. “You haven’t even tried it properly.”

“Don’t need to, I can sense it.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

Lando just grins at him, stepping closer, and bumping their hips together as he reaches past him for two plates. “Mum asked about you.”

Oscar pauses. “Your Mum?”

“Yeah.” Lando shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s something faintly pleased in his voice. “She wanted to know what you’re doing for Christmas.”

Oscar stills. “She asked about me?”

“Yeah,” Lando says lightly. “Mum usually hosts this big, elaborate Christmas Day lunch, guess she just wants to know approximate numbers.”

Oscar turns, eyebrows raised. “And she wants me there?”

“Why do you sound so shocked about that?” Lando nudges him with his shoulder.

“I don’t know… just…” Oscar trails off, unsure how to put into words how it feels.

“Hey,” Lando comes to stand in front of him, arms wrapping around his waist. “I told you that she liked you. That means invites to every Norris family event from now on.”

Oscar laughs, “yeah okay.”

Lando grins and lets go of him, moving back to the stove to start plating up their eggs. “So? What are you doing? For Christmas I mean.”

“Oh um,” Oscar pauses for a moment. “I usually head back to Australia. It’s really the only time I get to go back so I just figured I would be doing that.”

Lando nods slowly. “Makes sense.” There’s a quiet beat as Lando moves to join Oscar at the breakfast bar, knees brushing beneath it. “You should definitely still go to Australia, you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Oscar huffs a laugh. “Yeah probably.”

“But we should do New Year’s together,” Lando says, like the idea’s just occurred to him.

Oscar looks up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lando tears a piece of toast. “Somewhere sunny and warm. We can spend all day by the water and relaxed Osc can resurface for a few days.”

Oscar snorts but smiles anyway. “Okay. But you’re paying.”

“Obviously.”

They fall into easy silence for a moment as they eat, the scraping of the cutlery on the plates the only sound echoing in Oscar’s small apartment.

“So,” Lando eventually asks as he swallows the last of his food. “What is your schedule for this week?”

“Um, I’m off until Friday when we have reviews and then some testing over the weekend. Then I fly to Vegas on Tuesday.”

“So that means you have a few days free?” Lando grins.

Oscar raises an eyebrow in question. “Yeah?”

“Perfect,” Lando claps his hands together. “We’re going to go out, have fun, enjoy each other’s company. Two full days of date activities.”

“Are you not working?”

“Nope,” Lando grins. “Also got the next two days completely off. Was meant to already be back in Monaco but got McLaren to change my flight to here but I’m not due back at MTC until Friday. Then flying to Vegas early on Sunday for a few sponsor events.”

Oscar frowns slightly. “Then why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I what?” Lando frowns.

“In Monaco?”

Lando glances up at him with a small chuckle, eyes softer than usual. “Because someone accidentally told me they loved me when they ended the phone call before I could say it back.”

Oscar feels the heat creep up his neck. “Oh, right.”

Lando laughs. “Point is, I had to come because I think I would have gone crazy if I couldn’t tell you in person that ‘I loved you too’ as soon as freaking possible.”

Oscar tries and fails to hide how that makes him feel. “So we’ve got two whole days?”

“Two whole days,” Lando confirms. “Date days, proper ones. I’ve already got plans.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“You love it.” Oscar rolls his eyes but he’s smiling.

They’re still bickering about what constitutes a “proper” date when Lando’s phone buzzes loudly against the table. The sound slices clean through the warmth of the morning. Lando glances at the screen and Oscar’s grin fades as he watches Lando’s shoulders stiffen.

“Yeah,” Lando says into the phone, voice clipped. “Now? It’s supposed to be my day off.” There’s a pause, and his jaw tenses. “Fine. Give me fifteen minutes.”

When he hangs up, he just stands there for a moment, staring at the wall, fingers worrying at the edge of his hoodie. The easy energy from moments ago is gone, replaced by that familiar knot of stress that’s been creeping in more often lately.

“What’s wrong?” Oscar asks quietly.

Lando exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “They need me at MTC. Something with the sim data for the next race weekend. They said it’s urgent.”

Oscar’s heart sinks. “Can’t someone else handle it?”

Lando shakes his head, already reaching for his keys on the counter. “Apparently not.” He looks up then, guilt flickering in his expression. “I’m sorry. I know we had plans, I just…”

Oscar pushes a small smile into place. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Lando stands, already reaching for his jacket. “It shouldn’t take long. An hour, maybe two. I’ll be back and we’ll still do date night.”

“Go,” Oscar says, even though something inside him sinks a little. “It’s fine.”

Lando leans down, presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Oscar watches him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. The apartment feels too quiet after that.

An hour passes. Then two. Oscar tries to distract himself, he tidies the kitchen, scrolls through his phone, starts a film but barely absorbs it. Still, when the sky outside turns from pale afternoon to deep blue, his chest feels tight in a way he can’t quite explain.

He sends a text, ‘All good?’ It sits on delivered for twenty minutes before Lando replies. ‘Yeah, sorry Osc.’ Oscar stares at the screen longer than he should.

He tries waiting up. He’s curled on the couch, a throw blanket up around his shoulders, half-dozing on the couch with the TV on low. The clock creeps toward midnight and at some point, the exhaustion wins and sleep overtakes him.

He surfaces slowly to feeling of strong arms under his knees and back, the familiar scent of Lando’s aftershave surrounding him. Oscar blinks against dim hallway light as he’s lifted fully off the couch.

“Lando?” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Lando whispers. “Sorry.”

Oscar lets his head fall against his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

Lando carries him to the bedroom carefully, like he’s handling something fragile and lays him down gently against the pillows.

Oscar reaches for him instinctively, fingers catching in the front of his shirt. “You said it wouldn’t take long,” he murmurs, not accusing, just tired.

Lando’s expression shifts, guilt flickering there. “I know.” He brushes his thumb along Oscar’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar wants to say something sharper, something honest about how it feels, but sleep drags him under again before he can form the words. The last thing he feels is Lando slipping into bed beside him, arm curling around his waist, holding him tight.

…

Las Vegas makes Oscar feel like he’s stepped into an alternative universe. The strip glows in a continuous cycle of impossible colours, neon pinks and electric blues reflecting off polished car bonnets and hotel glass. Even the air feels louder here, thick with music, laughter and the faint scent of expensive perfume drifting from open doors.

And somewhere between championship pressure and desert heat, a few of the drivers decide that Lando turning twenty nine the Tuesday after the Vegas Grand Prix deserves a proper celebration before their focus fully locks in for the weekend.

That’s how Oscar finds himself standing in the lobby of the hotel, with Lando, Charles, Max V, George and Daniel, whilst they argue about where to go.

“It’s the last Vegas race of your twenties,” Daniel declares dramatically in the hotel lobby, hands thrown wide like he’s announcing a title fight. “We cannot let that pass without consequences.”

“I’m not dying,” Lando says dryly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s literally just twenty nine.”

Max snorts. “You’re almost thirty.”

“Shut up.”

Oscar stands beside him, shoulder brushing Lando’s, watching the exchange with a quiet smile.

They’re halfway through debating venues when George suddenly slows his pace. “Hang on,” he says, looking pointedly at Oscar. “Oscar’s not twenty one.”

Everyone stops. Max’s eyebrows shoot up. Daniel let’s out a loud “fuck.”

Oscar feels the familiar prickle of heat climb up his neck. It’s not like he doesn’t know this. It’s not like that wasn’t the first thing he realised when the others started talking about going clubbing.

“It’s fine,” Oscar says quickly, stepping in before it can turn into a full blown logistical crisis. “You guys go, honestly. It’s Lando’s birthday thing, I don’t need to be there.”

Lando turns to him so fast Oscar almost laughs. “No,” Lando says.

Oscar shrugs lightly. “Lando, it’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s your birthday, you should go out and celebrate.”

“And?” Lando crosses his arms. “I’m not going without you.”

Oscar huffs out a breath. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not,” Lando shoots back. “Why would I go celebrate my birthday without my boyfriend?”

The word hits Oscar square in the chest, steady and grounding.

Max tilts his head. “You could survive one night apart.”

Lando doesn’t even look at him. “I don’t want to.” And there’s something stubborn in his tone that makes Oscar’s irritation dissolve into something softer.

Charles, who has been quietly assessing the situation, finally speaks up. “Arthur and some of his friends are here this weekend,” he says calmly. “They’re around Oscar’s age. There are places that allow eighteen plus entry but still serve alcohol. It doesn’t have to be a nightclub.”

Daniel perks up. “You’ve got a backup plan?”

Charles gives him a look. “Always.”

Oscar still shakes his head. “It’s honestly not a big deal. You don’t have to change everything because of me.”

Lando’s expression softens slightly, but his voice stays firm. “It’s not changing everything. It’s choosing somewhere we can all go.”

Max smirks faintly. “Romantic.”

“Shut up,” Lando mutters.

Charles is already scrolling on his phone. “There’s a place about ten minutes away. Lounge bar. Eighteen plus allowed inside. They give wristbands to under twenty ones so staff know who can drink.”

Oscar winces slightly at that.

Max notices instantly. “Oh brilliant. Fluorescent child bracelet.”

“Can you not?” Oscar mutters.

Lando shoots Max a look that could probably cut glass. “Drop it.”

“Sorted, we go there. I’ll text Arthur the details,” Charles finishes, already typing something out on his phone.

There’s a brief silence, then Daniel claps his hands together. “Problem solved. Happy now birthday boy?”

Lando just glances sideways at Oscar. “You good?”

Oscar hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Lando reaches down and squeezes his hand quickly, like a quiet thank you.

“Twenty nine,” Daniel says loudly as they start walking toward the exit. “We’re witnessing the end of an era.”

“It’s not an era,” Lando protests.

“It is in F1 years,” Max replies. “Less year now until your retirement than there is between now and your rookie year.”

Oscar laughs under his breath, letting himself fall into step beside Lando.

The place Charles found is all low lighting and dark wood, neon signs reflected in mirrored walls and bass humming softly under the chatter of a Wednesday night crowd. It’s not the chaos of a Vegas nightclub, but it’s still loud enough that Oscar feels it in his ribs the moment they step inside.

They barely make it three steps past the entrance before a staff member is holding an arm out in front of Oscar.

“ID?”

Oscar sighs and hands it over, trying to ignore the way Max hovers like this is the most entertaining thing he has seen all week.

The girl behind the desk scans it, nods, then pulls out a band. It is an ugly shade of neon orange.

She fastens it around his wrist with a decisive tug. “Under twenty one. No alcohol.”

“Yeah,” Oscar mutters, already wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

Max grins. “That’s subtle.”

Daniel leans in conspiratorially. “We could get you one with glitter if you’d prefer.”

Lando shoots them both a look. “Can you two shut up for five minutes?”

Oscar forces a small smile, but as they move deeper into the lounge, he immediately tugs the sleeve of his shirt down over the band. He keeps his hand half tucked into his pocket, adjusting the fabric every few seconds to make sure the neon edge does not flash under the lights.

It feels ridiculous even though rationally he knows it’s not. He is twenty, that is normal. It still makes him feel like a kid in this moment though.

Lando notices the movement almost instantly. “You don’t have to hide it,” he says quietly, leaning closer so only Oscar hears.

“I’m not hiding it.”

“You are.”

Oscar huffs. “It’s bright and obnoxious.”

Lando’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, it is.”

Before the conversation can stretch, Charles appears at Oscar’s elbow, easy smile in place. “Oscar,” he says. “There are people I want you to meet.”

Oscar glances at Lando, who nods. “Go. I’ll grab drinks.”

“Non-alcoholic,” Max calls out loudly, and Oscar considers throwing something at him.

“If we were in Australia right now, I’d be fine,” Oscar mumbles under his breath.

Lando, obviously having heard, leans in to whisper in Oscar’s hear. “Yeah, well when we’re in Australia next year and you inevitably kill it in your rookie race, we’ll go out to celebrate and you’ll have to drink Max under the bus,” Lando smirks, squeezing Oscar’s arm, and walks toward the bar without waiting for a reply.

Oscar watches him for a second before turning to Charles who nods and leads him toward a cluster of people near one of the curved booths. The energy is different over here, it’s less polished, more restless.

“Arthur, this is Oscar.” Arthur’s smile is easy and familiar in a way that reminds Oscar so much of Charles it makes him grin instantly. He’s got the same dark hair, the same sharp cheekbones, but there’s something softer about him, more relaxed. He pulls Oscar into a quick half-hug like they’ve known each other longer than thirty seconds.

“Finally,” Arthur says. “I feel like I’ve heard about you for months.”

Fred stands beside him, taller, shoulders broad under a fitted shirt, posture almost military straight even when he’s relaxed. His expression is calm but warm, eyes sharp and observant in that way drivers always are, taking everything in without seeming to try. “Good to meet you properly,” Fred says, offering his hand. His grip is firm but not overbearing. “Congrats on the McLaren contract, the chaos it’s caused with Alpine has been incredible.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “That wasn’t really the plan.”

Logan leans in last, all easy confidence and bright energy. There’s something open about him, sun-kissed hair slightly messy like he’s run a hand through it one too many times, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms. His grin is quick and wide, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Logan,” He says, eye contact sharp. “Glad to finally meet you.”

Oscar smiles and feels his shoulder loosening. Meeting these guys feels… normal. “You too.”

Arthur studies him for a second, eyes sharp in a way that reminds Oscar very much of Charles. “You look younger in person.”

There it is again. Oscar shrugs. “I get that a lot.”

“Ignore him,” Logan says quickly, stepping closer so their shoulders almost brush. “We’re all basically the same age so Arthur doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“Hey,” Arthur huffs.

Logan ignores him, continuing, “it’s weird being the youngest in a room full of F1 drivers. Kind of feels like you accidentally wandered into a staff meeting.”

Oscar lets out a laugh. “Exactly.”

Charles gestures between them. “These guys are all junior development drivers. Arthur is obviously at Ferrari, Fred’s with Mercedes and Logan’s at Williams. They all think they’re faster than me.”

“That’s because we are,” Logan says lightly, bumping shoulders with Oscar like they’re already mates.

They fall into karting stories almost immediately, late night drives, dodgy engines, the smell of rubber and cheap trackside coffee. Arthur talks about a race in Italy where he binned it on the formation lap. Fred admits to once getting yelled at in three languages by a team manager. Logan animatedly recounts a rain race that turned into absolute carnage. Oscar finds himself nodding, chiming in, adding his own disasters to the pile.

Logan leans closer at one point, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So how’s it actually feel? Next year, I mean, being on the full grid.”

Oscar shrugs, trying to keep it casual even though his chest tightens a little. “Good. Bit terrifying.”

Logan grins. “Terrifying’s good. Means you care.”

Fred watches Oscar carefully for a second, then gives a small nod. “You’ll be fine. You’ve always been quick.”

Oscar blinks at that. “Always?”

Fred shrugs. “Yeah, you were always a year or two above us in racing, but we’ve seen you race.”

There’s something grounding about it, being seen like that. Not as Lando’s whatever, not as a headline, just as another driver who’s come up through the same tracks and the same early mornings.

The conversation shifts easily after that like they’ve known each other longer than five minutes. Fred and Logan start bickering over a race where Logan spun him deliberately in the rain and pretended it was “racing incident.”

“It was a racing incident,” Logan insists.

“You looked directly at me and turned your wheel,” Fred fires back.

Oscar finds himself leaning forward, elbows on the table, laughing so hard his stomach aches. He looks up when he feels a familiar presence at his side.

“Hope I’m not interrupting?” Lando asks lightly. He’s holding two drinks, one already extended toward Oscar without looking. Oscar takes it automatically, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary.

“Never,” Oscar says.

Lando’s mouth curves. He leans in, quick and casual, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of Oscar’s mouth before straightening again. “Don’t let them corrupt you,” he says, nodding toward Arthur and the others. “I’ll be over there.” And then he’s gone, drifting back toward his own group with Charles falling into step beside him.

The silence that follows is immediate. Arthur blinks. Fred’s eyebrows shoot up. Logan’s smile falters just slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face before he schools it back into something neutral. Oscar feels heat crawl up his neck. They didn’t know.

Arthur recovers first. “Right,” he says slowly. “So that’s… not just team bonding.”

Fred huffs a quiet laugh. “You could’ve led with that.”

Oscar swallows. “Yeah. I… we…” He huffs a small, awkward breath. “We’re together.”

“Well…” Arthur’s grin spreads. “That explains a lot actually.”

Fred nods once, thoughtful. “Congrats.”

Logan lifts his drink slightly in a half-toast and looks at Oscar for a second longer than the others do, his expression softer now, almost sheepish. “Good for you,” he says, and means it. But there’s a subtle dimming in his energy, like a light turned down a notch.

Conversation and music swells again, filling the space between them. Logan ends up beside Oscar on the edge of the booth, leaning in closer so they can hear each other over the music. “I don’t know what you’re schedule is like whilst we’re here, but we’ve all got tomorrow night off and were planning on walking the strip if you’re around?”

“Yeah?” Oscar says. “That sounds good.”

Logan’s grin widens. “Awesome. We’re hoping for some good food spots, none of that fancy team hospitality rubbish.”

“I’m in,” Oscar says, surprising himself with how quickly the answer comes.

Across the room, Lando’s eyes flicker toward them again. Oscar misses it.

Arthur leans in conspiratorially. “You know, Charles was nervous you wouldn’t vibe with us.”

“What? Why?” Oscar asks.

Arthur shrugs. “Something about you being very… composed. And us being too chaotic.”

Oscar snorts.

Logan studies him again, softer this time. “You seem alright, though.”

Oscar feels warmth bloom in his chest at that. “Thanks.” It feels good, being liked without it being complicated. Without it being about who he is dating or what seat he is taking next season.

When Oscar finally looks up, he catches Lando’s eye across the room. Lando smiles, but it is tight at the edges. Oscar lifts his wrist slightly in an exaggerated wave, sleeve slipping just enough to expose the neon band. Lando smiles and rolls his eyes playfully, shaking his head faintly. Oscar turns back to Logan, missing the way Lando’s gaze lingers a fraction too long.

Eventually, Daniel claps loudly near the bar. “Right,” he announces. “Birthday boy speech.”

Lando groans immediately. “No.”

Max appears at Daniel’s side, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yes.”

They herd everyone toward the centre of the lounge, dragging Lando with them despite his protests. A few other patrons glance over, curious.

Daniel grabs a glass, tapping it dramatically. “We gather here tonight,” he begins, voice booming, “to celebrate the slow but inevitable decline of one Lando Norris.”

Laughter ripples through the group.

Max steps in smoothly. “Twenty nine years old. Four world championships. And still somehow incapable of replying to messages on time.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Lando mutters.

Daniel points at him. “No interruptions. This is about you.”

Max continues, smirking. “We have watched him grow from an annoying teenager with questionable hair into… well, an annoying adult with slightly better hair.”

Lando flips him off.

Daniel sighs theatrically. “But in all seriousness, mate. You’ve built something incredible. On track and off track.”

“And…” Max adds, tone shifting just enough to carry meaning, “you’ve apparently found someone who tolerates you.”

A few heads turn instinctively toward Oscar. Oscar feels his face heat instantly.

Daniel grins wickedly. “We didn’t think it was possible. But here we are, our little Lando Norris finally settling down.”

There is a ripple of teasing cheers. Lando’s cheeks flush pink under the low lights.

Max nods toward Oscar. “I mean to be fair, if I had someone look at me the way Oscar looks at you, I’d make sure to lock them down too.”

“What?” Lando mutters again.

Max arches an eyebrow. “Like he’d let you pin himto a wall if he asked.”

There is a split second of stunned silence. Then Daniel howls with laughter.

“Mate!” Arthur chokes, nearly dropping his drink.

Oscar can feel heat racing from his collarbone to the tips of his ears. He opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.

Lando goes bright red. “Shut up,” he snaps, but there is no real anger behind it, just embarrassment.

Daniel waggles his brows. “We’ve seen the way you two disappear between hospitality units.”

Someone wolf whistles from the back. Oscar’s heart is beating so loudly he is certain it is audible over the music. He risks a glance at Lando. Lando is trying not to smile and desperately failing.

Daniel lifts his glass. “All jokes aside. It’s nice to see you this happy, mate. Even if we have to endure the heart eyes.”

“Heart eyes?” Lando repeats incredulously.

Max nods. “Disgusting, honestly.”

Oscar ducks his head, sleeve slipping just enough that the neon band flashes again under the lights. He hurriedly tugs it back into place. Lando notices, his gaze softens immediately.

Max finishes with a smirk. “To Lando. To championships. And to finally finding someone who can keep up with him… on and off track.”

There is another wave of laughter, a few exaggerated cheers. Oscar groans quietly into his drink. Lando’s eyes find him again across the circle. The teasing noise fades into the background for a second. The look Lando gives him now is less embarrassed and more… intent. Possessive, almost.

Logan nudges Oscar lightly. “You okay?”

Oscar forces a grin. “Yeah. They’re idiots.”

“Looks like he likes you a lot,” Logan says casually.

Oscar swallows. “Yeah.”

Lando finally makes his way back to Oscar, weaving through the crowd. When he reaches him, he doesn’t hesitate. His hand slides around Oscar’s waist, pulling him in close enough that their hips brush. Oscar inhales sharply.

“Having fun?” Lando asks, voice low enough that only Oscar hears.

“Maybe,” Oscar says, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

Lando’s fingers tighten slightly at his side. “Ignore them.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

For a second, the noise of the room feels distant. The teasing, the neon lights, the stupid band around his wrist. It all fades under the weight of Lando’s hand at his waist and the way he is looking at him like he belongs exactly where he is. Even if half the room is determined to make jokes about it.

Oscar tilts his head up slightly. “They’re never going to let this go, are they?”

Lando’s mouth curves. “Absolutely not.” And somehow, despite the heat in his cheeks and the fluorescent band under his sleeve, Oscar finds himself smiling.

The dance floor fills quickly, bodies moving under flashing pink and blue lights and Oscar is halfway through retreating back toward the safety of the booth when Lando catches his wrist.

“Absolutely not,” Lando says. “We’re going dancing.”

“I’m not dancing,” Oscar replies immediately.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t dance.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “How do you know that if you’ve never done it?”

“Not like… this.” Oscar gestures vaguely at the crowd of people who look entirely too confident in their own limbs. “I’ll look ridiculous.”

“No you won’t,” Lando grins. “Come on. It’s my birthday. I want just one dance with my boyfriend.”

“It’s not your actual birthday yet.” Oscar shakes his head, trying to pull free. “Lan…”

But Lando doesn’t let him go. He steps forward instead, crowding Oscar until there’s nowhere left to retreat without crashing into someone else. The music pulses through the floor, bass vibrating up through Oscar’s legs.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Lando says, voice lower now. “Just move with me.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do.”

Oscar lets out a frustrated breath. “I’m serious.”

Lando’s hands settle on his hips before Oscar can protest again. “Follow me,” Lando says softly.

Oscar swallows. The first few seconds are awkward. Oscar moves too stiffly, shoulders tight, acutely aware of where his arms are, where his feet are, where everyone else might be looking.

“I hate this,” he mutters.

“You don’t,” Lando replies calmly. “You just think you do.”

Lando shifts closer, guiding Oscar’s hips with a gentle pressure of his hands. The movement is slow at first, side to side, matching the rhythm of the song. Oscar tries not to think about how close they are but fails when Lando steps in another inch, chest brushing Oscar’s. One of his hands slides from Oscar’s hip to the small of his back, pulling him flush against him.

Oscar’s breath catches.

“See?” Lando murmurs near his ear. “It’s not so hard is it?”

“I hate you,” Oscar says, voice thin.

“No you don’t,” Lando says, lips grazing the side of Oscar’s head as he says it.

The crowd presses in tighter as the song changes, the beat heavier now. Lando’s movements grow more confident, hips rolling slowly in time with the music. Oscar’s hands, unsure at first, settle awkwardly at Lando’s waist.

“Relax Osc,” Lando says. “I promise I’ve got you.”

Lando shifts again, and suddenly they’re moving together instead of separately. The rhythm becomes easier to follow when Oscar stops overthinking and just lets his body respond. Lando’s thigh slides between Oscar’s slightly, their hips brushing in a way that makes Oscar’s pulse spike.

“Lando,” he breathes.

Lando smirks faintly, leaning down so his mouth is just by Oscar’s ear. “You’re doing fine.”

Oscar can feel the heat building low in his stomach, especially when Lando’s hands tighten at his back and draw him even closer. Their bodies fit together in a way that feels dangerously natural. The movement turns from tentative to something else entirely. Lando rolls his hips slowly, deliberately, grinding against Oscar just enough that it’s unmistakable.

Oscar’s grip on Lando’s shirt tightens as he feels himself harden. “This is your fault,” he mutters.

“Absolutely,” Lando agrees.

The world narrows again to the press of bodies and the thrum of music. Lando’s breath is warm against Oscar’s neck. Oscar can feel every shift of muscle, every subtle movement. He forgets, briefly, that he hates dancing. He forgets about the wristband. He forgets about who might be watching.

Until he catches sight of Daniel across the room, eyebrows raised, and Max shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief.

Oscar flushes instantly. “We’re being stared at,” he hisses.

“So?” Lando replies, not slowing down.

“So we should stop.”

Lando leans back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and amused. “You were just getting into it.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

Oscar tries to step back, but Lando’s hand at his back holds him there gently. “Stay,” Lando says, softer now.

Oscar hesitates enough for Lando to press closer anyway, hips rolling deliberately again, hands sliding from Oscar’s waist to the small of his back. Oscar’s breath catches despite himself. The room feels hot, the lights too bright, the music too loud, Lando too close.

A few cheers erupt around them. Oscar feels dizzy as Lando spins him half around, he lifts his head and sees more eyes on them from across the dance floor. Arthur is wiggling his eyebrows at Oscar whilst Fred tries to get him to stop. Logan is standing next to them, drink in hand, just watching.

And suddenly Oscar is hyperaware of everything again. Of how close Lando is. Of the way Lando’s hand is splayed possessively at his waist. Of the fact that this is public and people are looking.

His pulse spikes. Lando feels the shift instantly. “Osc?” he says, pulling back slightly. “Hey.”

Oscar blinks, forcing his gaze away from Logan, but he can still feel it, the way it made something cold thread through his chest.

“I just…” Oscar swallows. “It’s hot in here.”

Lando studies him for half a second longer than necessary. His thumb presses lightly into Oscar’s hip, grounding.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

He glances over Oscar’s shoulder, follows the line of his gaze just enough to clock Logan still standing there. Something in Lando’s expression tightens. Then he looks back at Oscar. “Come on,” he says, voice low. “Let’s get some air.”

He doesn’t wait for an argument. He takes Oscar’s hand, firm and certain, and threads them through the crowd toward the exit. Oscar doesn’t look back this time.

They slip through the side exit, past a bored looking security guard and out into the dry Vegas night. The noise dulls behind the heavy door, replaced by the distant hum of traffic and the soft thud of bass through brick.

The alley is strung with faint fairy lights and smells faintly of cigarette smoke and desert heat. It feels private in that false way that places like this do.

Oscar barely has time to turn before Lando’s hands are on him again. One curving around his waist at and the other cupping his jaw. The kiss lands quick at first, almost cautious. Then it deepens, like something unspooling that has been wound too tight all night.

Oscar exhales into it, fingers gripping at Lando’s shirt. He can still taste mint and something sweet on Lando’s tongue from the drinks he’s had. Lando presses him gently back against the brick wall, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to cage him in.

Oscar’s heart is hammering.

Lando kisses him again, slower this time, mouth warm and insistent. Oscar tilts his head instinctively, opening up to him without thinking. The world narrows to breath and hands and the solid line of Lando’s body against his.

Lando’s hand slides from his waist to his hip, thumb hooking briefly into the waistband of his jeans. Oscar makes a soft sound he doesn’t mean to, fingers tightening in Lando’s curls.

The kiss shifts, becomes something hungrier. Lando’s teeth graze Oscar’s bottom lip lightly before soothing it with a slow sweep of his tongue. Oscar feels it low in his stomach, heat pooling and spreading.

“Lando,” he breathes, half warning, half plea.

Lando hums against his mouth, pressing closer.

For a second, Oscar forgets where they are. Then a car door slams somewhere nearby and both of them freeze.

Lando pulls back just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide, breath uneven. Oscar is acutely aware of the open alley, the faint glow from the door behind them, the fact that anyone could step out at any moment.

“What was that for?” Oscar asks, a little dazed, a little amused.

Lando’s chest rises and falls sharply. His hands are still on Oscar’s hips like he hasn’t quite remembered to let go. “What do you mean?” he says, attempting nonchalance and not quite pulling it off.

“That was…” Oscar gestures vaguely between them. “Intense.”

Lando huffs a quiet laugh, looking away for a second. He drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

“It’s my birthday,” he says lightly. “I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend, yeah?”

Oscar’s brows knit slightly. “You’ve kissed me before.”

“Yeah,” Lando replies quickly. “And I’ll do it again.”

There’s an edge under the joke. Oscar can hear it, even if he doesn’t understand it. He studies Lando’s face. “Did I do something?”

Lando’s eyes snap back to his. For a flicker of a second something flashes there, something defensive and possessive. “No,” he says immediately. “You didn’t do anything.”

Oscar hesitates. “We should…” Oscar starts.

“Yeah,” Lando agrees and drops his hands reluctantly, though one lingers at Oscar’s side a second longer than necessary.

“Probably not the smartest place,” he mutters.

Oscar’s lips feel swollen. “Definitely not.”

Lando smirks faintly, leaning in to press one last, softer kiss to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “Come on,” Lando says as he pulls back. “Before Daniel decides to come looking for us.”

Oscar nods, taking one steadying breath before they push back through the door. The music swallows them instantly, but Oscar can still feel the imprint of Lando’s hands on his skin.

…

The Vegas Strip at night time and during the race feels like a fever dream. The Strip is all glare and noise and champagne promises, cameras flashing under artificial starlight. Lando drives like he always does under pressure, sharp, controlled and precise. He crosses the line in the points. It’s not a win but Oscar exhales anyway, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

And then it all unravels. Both McLarens under investigation for their floor planks.

Oscar stands in the back of the garage as the whispers turn into headlines in real time.

“Both McLaren cars have been referred to the stewards…”

“Potential technical infringement regarding plank thickness…”

“This could have major championship implications…”

The words feel distant, muffled by the rushing in Oscar’s ears.

And then it’s confirmed. Both McLaren’s are disqualified.

Oscar finds himself waiting for Lando in his driver room, heart in his throat. He hates to admit it but he’s expecting silence, or anger, or worse, that dangerous quiet focus that means Lando is already spiralling through data in his head.

The door opens and Lando steps through, still in his fireproofs, hair flattened with sweat. He looks… tired. But not broken.

Oscar searches his face. “You okay?” he asks immediately.

Lando lets out a breath through his nose. “Bit of a day.”

“You just lost all those points.”

“Yeah.” A shrug that comes across too casual. “Car didn’t pass. Nothing I can do about that.”

Oscar’s stomach twists. “Right.”

Lando gives him a sideways look. “What?”

Oscar stares at him. “You’re not upset?”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile. “Course I’m upset, I’m not a robot. But if I start overthinking every millimetre of plank wear, I’ll go insane.”

Oscar watches him carefully. His hands aren’t shaking. His voice isn’t clipped. Instead he finds something else, acceptance. Or maybe exhaustion.

“You sure?” Oscar presses.

Lando reaches out and squeezes the back of Oscar’s neck gently. “Osc, it’s done. We’ll appeal if we can. If not, we move on.” There’s a flicker in his eyes, just for a second, frustration, hurt, but it passes quickly.

They stand there for a moment in the corridor, noise from the paddock swelling around them. Then, unexpectedly, Lando bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Come on, we should go get ice cream?”

Oscar blinks. “Ice cream?”

“Yeah, why not?” Lando shrugs.

“You just got disqualified.”

“Exactly. Perfect excuse for ice cream.”

Oscar stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

Lando bumps his shoulder. “Come on. If I sit around here any longer listening to commentary about ‘championship ramifications’ I might actually lose it.”

Oscar hesitates. Part of him wants Lando to break, to yell, to show something so Oscar knows he isn’t swallowing it down and letting it rot inside him. But the alternative is worse cause the alternative is Lando remaining silent and distancing himself from Oscar.

“Okay,” Oscar says quietly. “Ice cream.” Lando grins like he’s won something instead of lost it and Oscar decides that yes, this version of Lando is definitely better than the alternative. And if pretending tonight is lighter than it feels keeps them both steady, then Oscar will go along with it.

Chapter Text

Two weeks off between races this late in the season feels surreal as the formula one season reaches its apex, the final double header. But that’s what they’ve got, two weeks in between the Vegas Grand Prix and having to get on the plane to Qatar.

However Lando’s brain has definitely not registered the days off with his whole world having narrowed to data, deadlines, and the fine edges of a championship fight. He’s leading, but just barely, and every tenth of a second feels like a lifetime. Lando’s been running on caffeine, adrenaline, and pressure that never seems to ease.

Oscar’s life has been busy as well, just in a different way. Now that the legal noise is behind him, his focus is all on preparing to become a McLaren race driver next season, simulator sessions, meetings with his new engineers, seat fittings, fitness testing. Every day is a step closer to his debut, and though he tries not to think about it too much, the weight of what’s ahead sits heavy in his chest.

But Lando’s schedule has swallowed him whole, meetings stacked on top of sim runs, media briefings bleeding into sponsor calls. Even when they’re spending time together at Oscar’s apartment in the UK when Lando’s at the MTC, his laptop hums from the kitchen table, telemetry and performance data filling the screen long after midnight. Oscar’s own work feels tame by comparison, a neat nine-to-five rhythm of sim sessions, fitness, and debriefs. When he shuts his laptop, the day ends. For Lando, it never does.

At first, Oscar doesn’t mind the constant motion. He gets it, he understands it. He knows that if it was the other way around, Oscar would probably be just as busy with the championship fight hanging by a thread, the pressure heavier with every race. But understanding doesn’t stop the ache that creeps in when he reaches for Lando in the morning and finds only an empty bed. Or when another text goes unanswered because Lando’s still “just wrapping something up.”

Their moments together shrink to fragments. A phone call that ends with, “sorry, Oscar, they need me on the other line”. A movie night that dissolves halfway through when Lando’s phone rings and he mouths an apologetic “five minutes” before disappearing into the bedroom for an hour. Dinner conversations where Oscar trails off mid-sentence when he realises that Lando’s eyes are fixed on the tablet beside his plate, fingers flicking through data sheets, not having heard a word Oscar’s said.

It’s not cruel, just careless. Lando always means to come back, to make it up to him. He’ll press a kiss to Oscar’s temple before heading out the door or send a “miss you” text long after Oscar’s already fallen asleep. And each time, Oscar tells himself that it’s fine, that this is what love looks like when one of them is fighting for a world championship.

But there’s a quiet sting beneath the acceptance, a hollow space where connection used to sit. Especially now, after the ‘I love yous’ and their first time together. The intimacy that had made Oscar feel anchored now only makes the distance harder to bear. He hates the way it feels like being left behind, like Lando’s world has outpaced him, and Oscar’s only catching the small doses of what’s left.

By the time Lando’s actual 29th birthday rolls around, Oscar’s been looking forward to a night that isn’t scheduled down to the minute. Lando had promised he’d have the night off so they could spend time together. He’s planned everything, a quiet dinner of Lando’s favourite food, candles, music, he even changed his bed sheets to nice fancy ones. But as the clock ticks past eight pm, the flat is still silent and Lando’s contact still shows no new messages.

Oscar’s rung twice, both calls going unanswered. By nine he’s given up pretending not to care and just sits on the couch, staring at his phone until it finally buzzes, Lando’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hey,” comes the tired voice on the other end, muffled, distracted. “I’m really sorry, Osc. I know I promised but I’m still in this meeting. It’s important, I’m sorry.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. “It’s fine. I figured something came up.”

“Yeah, it’s a nightmare. I’ll make it up to you, promise.”

“Yeah,” Oscar hates how defeated his voice sounds.

Lando sighs, the sound heavy. “Oscar, it’s just, there’s so much happening right now. With the championship being so close, I need to be perfect. Every moment counts, you get that right that?”

“Sure.”

There’s a pause, and when Lando speaks again, his voice is softer. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar swallows, keeping his tone steady. “It’s fine. Really. Go do what you need to do.”

“I love you,” Lando says again, quick this time, and hangs up before Oscar can say goodbye.

His apartment feels too quiet. Dinner’s gone cold, candles have burned halfway down. Oscar stands for a while, just staring at the empty table before blowing them out one by one. He leaves the plated up dishes on the table, deciding to just deal with it all in the morning and retreats into the bedroom.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, he’s too wired. He tells himself not to be angry. He tells himself Lando’s under pressure, that he’s leading a championship, that this is just what comes with it. But the small ache under his ribs doesn’t fade.

It’s past midnight when he hears the front door open. The faint shuffle of shoes being kicked off, the quiet sound of a sigh. He can hear Lando pottering around in the kitchen for a few minutes before Lando’s footsteps start down the hallway toward his bedroom. The door to his room creaks open and the mattress dips.

“Osc?” Lando whispers. His voice is low, careful, hopeful.

Oscar doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes closed, his breathing even. He can feel the air shift when Lando steps closer, the faint scent of cologne and the sharp tang of cold night air following him. There’s a hesitation like Lando’s deciding whether to touch him or not, then the soft rustle of clothes as Lando changes in the dark.

The bed dips again when Lando slides under the covers, a cautious distance between them. He exhales softly, like the sound might wake Oscar, and then turns onto his side, facing away from Oscar.

Oscar stays still, eyes open now, staring at the faint glow of moonlight spilling in through the curtains. The ache in his chest tightens. He wants to roll over, wants to reach for Lando and tell him it’s okay, that he understands. But something stops him, pride, hurt, exhaustion, he isn’t sure.

So he lies there, quiet, listening to Lando’s breathing even out. It’s Lando’s birthday, and they’re lying inches apart, feeling miles away.

…

Oscar must have fallen into a fitful sleep at some point as he’s woken by the harsh sunlight streaming through the blinds. It’s too bright, too sharp against the dull ache that’s been sitting behind his eyes since last night. For a moment, he forgets why the bed feels so empty beside him. Then the quiet hits, there’s no sound of someone moving around in the kitchen, no low hum of Lando’s morning playlist, no smell of coffee drifting through the apartment.

He rolls over, grabbing his phone from the bedside table. One new message blinks up at him. ‘Had to head into MTC early for meetings. Didn’t want to wake you.’

Oscar stares at it for a while, thumb hovering over the screen before he locks it again and lets it drop onto the blanket beside him. He tells himself the same thing he’s told himself a million times this past week, not to take it personally, that this is what happens when you’re leading a championship. He doesn’t know when the words stopped meaning anything. He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling, wondering if it’s normal to miss someone this much when you technically saw them only a few hours ago.

By the time he gets to the McLaren Technology Centre, it’s just past midday. He’s got his own simulator work to do, prepping for his rookie season, tightening every detail before it starts. He tries to bury himself in it, lets the rhythm of data and numbers distract him, but it doesn’t hold. When he can, he catches himself glancing around, half expecting to see those familiar curls.

He eventually finds Lando when he heads into the café in his break. Lando’s sitting at a table near the window, Max Fewtrell across from him. Both are laughing, mid-story, lunch trays scattered with coffee cups and half-eaten wraps. Lando looks relaxed, happy, actually taking a break and something twists inside Oscar instead.

He blinks, unsure at first why it stings. Maybe it’s because of last night or because of how easily Lando seems to make time for someone else, for Max, for anyone but him it seems.

He watches for a beat too long. Lando’s eyes flick up at just the right moment, scanning the room before they land on him. His face lights up instantly, that same soft, familiar smile curving across his mouth. He lifts a hand, waving Oscar over.

Oscar hesitates, he should go over, he knows that. But instead, frustration blooms, quiet but sharp. He thinks of all the missed calls, the late nights, the way every promise of later keeps getting pushed further away. He thinks of how he’d stayed up waiting last night, wondering if he’d done something wrong.

Lando calls out his name, voice carrying faintly through the hum of the atrium. “Osc!”

Oscar forces a polite half-smile but doesn’t move. He can feel Lando watching him, confusion flickering in his expression when Oscar just nods once in acknowledgment, a stiff, small gesture, and turns away.

He walks fast, the soles of his shoes clicking too loudly against the polished floor. Behind him, he hears the scrape of a chair, a muffled sound of movement but Oscar doesn’t stop. He pushes through the glass doors and out into the corridor, his heart hammering harder than it should for something this small.

In his head, he tries to rationalise it, it’s not jealousy, it’s tiredness and stress. But the truth hums low in his chest, he’s angry because he cares, because part of him can’t understand why it feels like they’re slipping further apart, one unspoken misunderstanding at a time.

Oscar doesn’t see Lando or Max again until the afternoon. He’s sitting alone in one of the smaller data rooms, pretending to go over telemetry, when he hears a soft knock on the doorframe.

“Hey,” Max says, leaning against it with that familiar, lazy grin. “You good?”

Oscar huffs, not looking up. “Just trying to concentrate.”

“Sure,” Max says, crossing the room and dropping into the chair beside him. “You gonna tell me why you bolted out of the café earlier?” He asks, evidently not wanting to waste any time.

Oscar opens his mouth, closes it again, then sighs. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” Max replies, folding his arms and waiting. His tone is easy, but there’s a steadiness behind it that Oscar has heard Max use toward Lando before, all no-nonsense and matter of fact. “So, what is it?”

Oscar shakes his head. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The words feel childish, like something that doesn’t deserve to take up space, but the longer Max sits there, the harder it gets to hold them in.

“We were supposed to have date night last night for his birthday and he missed it. Then I wake up this morning and he’s not there, told me he had meetings,” Oscar says quietly. “Said he didn’t want to wake me up. And I get it, I do, his focus is on the championship, and it needs to be, it deserves to be. It’s just…” Oscar sighs, almost defeatedly. “Then I get here and he’s having lunch with you.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’re upset about lunch?”

Oscar exhales through his nose, frustrated. “It’s not about him having lunch with you specifically. It’s…” He rubs a hand over his face. “I feel like I barely see him at the moment. Every time I think we’ve got some time together, something comes up. A meeting or a call. Hell a thousand other things that apparently can’t wait.”

Max stays quiet, letting him go on.

“And I know he’s under pressure,” Oscar continues. “I know what the championship means to him, and I don’t want to make it about me. But it’s hard, you know? I sit there waiting, hoping maybe we’ll have dinner, or just talk, and it’s like…” He trails off, searching for the right words. “I… I feel like I don’t matter right now.”

The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the servers. Max sighs, running a hand a through his hair. “Shit,” he says finally. “He’s done this before, when it gets close to the end of the season, he shuts everything else out. Pretends he’s fine when we all know he’s not.”

Oscar nods slowly.

Max continues. “The last few times it’s gotten this close in the points, he’s spiralled… badly.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. “But he’s seeing someone, a therapist, that’s got to help right?”

“Yeah,” Max says. “It helps, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

They fall quiet again.

Max glances at him. “You’re with him more than anyone right now.”

Oscar’s heart skips. “Not lately.”

Max ignores that. “You’ll see it before the rest of us do, if it gets worse.”

Oscar’s fingers curl into his sleeves. “Worse how?”

“The not sleeping, snapping at people, getting inside his own head so badly he can’t climb back out.” Max’s voice drops. “Shutting people out.”

Oscar looks away, he’s already seen some of that.

Max exhales. “I’m not asking you to fix him, that’s not your job.”

“I know.”

“I’m just saying… if it gets bad. If you think he’s not okay, you need to let me or his Mum know.”

Oscar blinks at him. “You want me to report back to you?”

Max gives him a look. “I’ve seen him completely breakdown chasing a title before, I need to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

The bluntness almost makes Oscar smile.

“I care about him,” Max adds more quietly. “And I know you do too.”

Oscar nods. “I do.”

Max studies him for a second longer. “Good. Then just… let’s both keep an eye on him. And if he starts sliding somewhere dark, we don’t let him carry that alone.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. “Okay.”

Max bumps his shoulder lightly. “And for what it’s worth, he’s not pushing you away because he doesn’t care. He does it because he cares too much and doesn’t know where to put it.”

Oscar nods slowly, throat tight. “Yeah.”

Max studies him for a moment, then smirks. “And for what it’s worth, I think he misses you too. He looked ready to chase you down the hallway earlier.”

That earns a small, reluctant laugh from Oscar. “He probably thinks I’m ridiculous.”

“He thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him,” Max says honestly. “That’s why this is hard. He’s never had to juggle both before, fighting for the title and making time for someone he loves. But if anyone can teach him balance, it’s you.”

Oscar nods again, though he doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll try,” he murmurs.

Max stands, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Good, and I’m serious, promise me you’ll let me know if you get worried?”

Oscar smiles faintly, the tension easing slightly knowing that his concerns for Lando are shared with someone else. “I promise.”

…

When Oscar gets back to his apartment that night, he’s surprised when he’s hit by the faint smell of garlic and herbs, warm light spilling from the kitchen instead of the usual dark. The table’s been set with plates and candles, even the good wine from the cupboard has been placed in the centre. Lando’s there, standing awkwardly by the counter, a tea towel over his shoulder and a sheepish smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re home.”

Oscar just stares for a moment. “What… is all this?”

“Dinner,” Lando says, a little too quickly. “I figured I owe you one. Or ten.”

Oscar’s still in the doorway, stunned. “You did this?”

“Yeah,” Lando says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not much, just that chicken pasta I know you love, so…”

Oscar feels something loosen in his chest for the first time in days. He steps forward, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I did,” Lando says, his voice quieter now. “I’ve been… off lately, I know that. I just… I don’t want you thinking I don’t care, that I don’t appreciate you and everything you do. Because I do Osc, so much.”

Oscar shakes his head, the guilt pricking at him even as warmth spreads through him. “I never thought that. I just… I miss you.”

Lando looks up then, eyes tired but open. “I miss you too, Osc, more than you know.”

Oscar’s breath catches. He doesn’t even think about it before he steps forward, closing the small gap that’s been hovering between them all week. His hands slide around Lando’s waist, pressing in close like he needs to make sure he’s real, that he’s actually here and not halfway buried in telemetry or strategy sheets.

Lando exhales against his hair, arms wrapping around him in return. “I’m sorry,” Lando murmurs into his temple. “I know I’ve been…”

“Busy,” Oscar finishes quietly. “I know, it’s okay. I get it Lando, trust me, I do.”

Lando pulls back just enough to look at him properly. His thumb brushes along Oscar’s jaw, lingering there like he’s memorising the shape of him. There’s tiredness in his eyes, but there’s something else too, relief.

He leans down and kisses him, mouths fitting together like they’ve both been holding their breath all week and finally get to exhale. Oscar’s fingers curl into the fabric of Lando’s shirt. Lando’s hand slides to the back of his neck, steadying him, grounding him, and Oscar hums softly against his mouth. When they part, they don’t move far, their foreheads stay pressed together.

“Right,” Lando says, gesturing toward the table like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be charming. “Shall we eat?”

Oscar blinks at the sudden shift.

Lando reaches for one of the chairs and pulls it out for him, exaggeratedly gentlemanly. “After you,” he says with a mock bow. “Can’t have my boyfriend starving.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the smile that tugs at his mouth as he steps forward and lets Lando guide him into the seat.

They sit, and for a while, it’s easy again. The pasta’s a bit overcooked, but neither of them cares. They talk about little things, both making the conscious decision to avoid any talk of work or the final two races.

When they’ve finished eating, Lando leans back, eyes on his plate. “I know I’ve been difficult lately,” he admits. “I’m trying to keep it together, but the pressure, it’s getting inside my head.” He gives a soft, humourless laugh. “Half the time I can’t sleep, and when I do, I dream about losing, about screwing it all up.”

Oscar studies him across the table. The dim light softens Lando’s face, but not enough to hide the shadows under his eyes. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.

“I know,” Lando murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I don’t want to drag you into it. It’s not fair to you and you’ve got your own prep for next year to focus on, I don’t want to take that away from you.”

“Lando,” Oscar says, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “You don’t have to protect me from you. I want to be here, even when it’s hard.”

Lando squeezes his hand, his thumb tracing a small circle against Oscar’s skin. “I don’t want to shut you out,” he says after a pause. “And I can’t promise that there won’t be moments over the next few weeks where my anxiety and negative thoughts win. But I am promising you this, that no matter how crazy the next few weeks get, I will do my hardest to make time for you. And make sure you always know how important you are to me.”

Oscar nods, smiling faintly. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Lando says. He exhales, the tension leaving his shoulders bit by bit. Then, softer, “You know, sometimes I think you’re the only thing keeping me from going entirely inside my own head.”

Oscar’s throat tightens. “All the more reason for you to let me help Lando, so you don’t have to go through this alone.”

Lando laughs quietly, the sound raw but warm. He stands, moving around the table, resting his hands on Oscar’s shoulders before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs. “You’re good for me, Osc.” Lando bends down and kisses him again, slow and lingering, until Oscar forgets about the simmering worries and noise of the world outside. And when they pull apart, Lando presses his forehead to Oscar’s and whispers, “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Oscar nods, believing him, if only because he needs to.

…

Lando had kept his promise in the days leading up to Qatar. The morning after they had talked, Oscar had half expected to wake up to the usual rush of notifications explaining Lando’s whereabouts. Instead he’d woken up in Lando’s arms and Lando telling him he plans to cancel his flight back to Monaco and spend the remaining days here with Oscar until they both need to leave for Qatar.

Lando was still busy, still leading the championship by a breath, still pulled in a hundred different directions, but he was drawing a line somewhere sensible. He was always back at Oscar’s apartment before ten. They would cook together, even if half the time it was just pasta and whatever was in the fridge. Lando would hum to whatever playlist he’d put on, steal bits of food off Oscar’s plate and press distracted kisses into his hair while waiting for water to boil. And then he would switch his phone onto silent while they ate, giving his full attention to Oscar.

Some nights they would do nothing at all. They’d curl up on the couch with a film neither of them really watched, legs tangled together, Lando’s thumb tracing lazy shapes over Oscar’s hip. Sometimes Lando would fall asleep halfway through, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, and Oscar would watch him breathe, relieved to see him finally rest.

So when they finally fly out to Qatar, Oscar realises he doesn’t feel quite so hollow anymore because Lando had kept his promise.

The Qatar desert air is dry even inside the paddock, lights reflecting off polished hospitality units and white awnings. Given it’s the second last race of the season, the tension has been sitting low in Oscar’s stomach since the plane touched down on the tarmac.

Oscar is standing near the McLaren hospitality entrance waiting for Lando’s family to arrive. Their flight had been delayed so Oscar had offered to wait and meet them when Lando had been called to an engineering meeting. He feels the smile spread across his face when he finally sees the familiar cluster of Norris faces weaving through the paddock with passes swinging around their necks.

Cisca sees him first, her face lighting up. “Oscar!” she calls, arms already open. He barely has time to brace before she’s hugging him tightly. Flo is next, then Oliver, then Cisca Jr squeezing him around the middle and laughing about how papaya is definitely his colour.

“You look stressed,” Oliver says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Oscar laughs, a little overwhelmed by the noise and warmth of them. “Mrs Norris,” he starts politely as Cisca steps back to look at him properly.

She clicks her tongue immediately. “Oh no,” she says firmly. “None of that.”

Oscar blinks.

“Call me Cisca,” she says, smoothing a hand over his shoulder. “You’re part of the family now.”

The words land harder than he expects. His throat tightens before he can stop it. “Okay,” he says softly. “Cisca.”

She smiles at him like he’s just done something very important. “You eating properly?” she asks, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Sleeping?”

Oscar opens his mouth to answer and then laughs when he realises she sounds exactly like his own Mum. “I’m fine,” he promises.

She studies him for a second longer, then nods like she’s choosing to believe him. “We’ve already booked flights for Australia next year,” she says casually, like she’s mentioning the weather.

Oscar blinks. “For…?”

“For Melbourne,” she says, eyes bright. “Your first race. We wouldn’t miss that.”

Something inside him flips over. “You didn’t have to…”

“Of course we did,” Flo cuts in. “You think we’re not coming to see you make your debut?”

Oliver grins. “We’ve been planning it since the announcement.”

Oscar’s chest feels too full and he doesn’t know what to say.

Cisca squeezes his arm. “It’ll be special,” she says softly. “Your home race. Lando will be so proud.”

Oscar swallows. He isn’t used to this, to being folded into someone else’s family like this, to being claimed in such an uncomplicated way.

“And,” Cisca continues brightly, “I’d love to meet your family while we’re there.”

Oscar blinks. “Oh,” he says, heart skipping. “Yeah, Mum would really love that.”

“She will?” Cisca asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“Yeah,” Oscar says, thinking of Nicole’s careful, protective questions. “She’d… she’d like you.”

Cisca smiles in a way that feels knowing but not intrusive. “Well,” she says, “we’ll make sure we do dinner. Both families, everyone together.”

Oscar laughs softly, nodding. He feels it then, as Cisca loops her arm through his and starts telling him about the chaos of their travel schedule, the weight of how much Lando’s family have accepted him without hesitation. How naturally they talk about next year like it’s a given that he’ll still be there, that he’ll still be with Lando. It makes something fragile in him ache.

…

Oscar stands at the back of garage, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes fixed on the timing tower like if he stares hard enough he can will it into behaving. Cisca stands beside him, fingers twisting nervously around the edge of her paddock pass.

“Ten points,” she murmurs under her breath. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

Oscar nods even though his heart is pounding in his throat.

Lando’s on his final flying lap of Q3. Purple in sector one.

“Come on,” Oscar whispers without meaning to.

Green in sector two, not purple. Good, but not enough. The cameras cut to the onboard, Lando’s hands are quick, precise, aggressive over the kerbs.

“Sector three is everything here,” one of the Sky commentators says. “Norris needs to hook this up if he wants to challenge the front row…”

The final corner approaches, Oscar feels sick. Lando crosses the line and Oscar immediately turns to the timing tower. Fifth. Silence drops through the garage like someone has cut the power. P1 and P2 light up beside the names of his championship rivals.

Cisca exhales sharply. “Oh, Lan.”

Oscar’s stomach drops. He knows that look on Lando’s face even before the broadcast cuts to it. The helmet still on, the stillness inside the cockpit.

Then the radio crackles faintly through the team feed. “Yeah,” Lando says, clipped. “Didn’t have it.”

When Lando walks back into the garage, the air around him feels charged. Oscar takes his headset off without thinking and slips toward Lando’s side of the garage just in time to see Lando rip off his helmet. He doesn’t throw it hard, but he throws it hard enough. It hits the ground with a dull crack that makes Oscar flinch. Engineers hover but don’t approach too closely. One tries to speak, Lando shakes his head once.

Oscar steps forward instinctively. “Lan…”

Lando strides past him. Oscar reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing Lando’s wrist, trying to catch his hand. Lando pulls away immediately. He doesn’t look at Oscar, doesn’t slow, doesn’t acknowledge the touch. He disappears into his driver room, door shutting firmly behind him.

The rejection is small, almost invisible to anyone else, but it hits Oscar like a physical thing. His hand hangs there uselessly for a moment before he drops it.

Cisca appears beside him, her expression tight but steady. She squeezes Oscar’s hand gently. “Give him space,” she says softly. “He’ll come around.”

Oscar nods, even though his chest feels hollow. “I know,” he murmurs. He does know, is the thing, he knows what a qualifying like that does to Lando, knows how he’ll replay every corner, every brake trace, every fraction of throttle. He knows that fifth isn’t catastrophic, but when you’re leading a championship by ten points and your rivals lock out the front row, it feels catastrophic.

Cisca squeezes his hand again. “He hates not being perfect,” she says quietly. “Always has.”

Oscar watches the closed driver room door. “I know,” he says again. And this time it sounds more like a promise, to give him space, even if every instinct in him wants to knock on that door and pull him into a hug instead.

Oscar stays still for a moment after Cisca’s hand leaves his. The garage hums back to life around him, engineers muttering, mechanics clearing equipment, someone replaying telemetry on a screen in the corner. The tension is still there, just quieter now, simmering instead of explosive.

He nods once to himself and slips out of the garage and back into the open paddock. The evening air in Qatar is warm but less suffocating than inside. He walks without direction at first, past Ferrari, past Red Bull, past catering trucks and PR staff laughing too loudly. He needs distance from the papaya glow.

He doesn’t hear anyone approach until a familiar voice says, “You look like a man on a mission.”

Oscar startles slightly, then relaxes when he sees Logan.

Logan’s hands are shoved into the pockets of his Williams team jacket, hair slightly mussed from pulling off a cap.

“Logan, hey,” Oscar says, attempting neutral.

“Hey Oscar.” Logan studies him for a second too long. “That quali wasn’t ideal hey?”

Oscar huffs a soft laugh. “Understatement.”

They fall into step together, walking slowly along the edge of the paddock where the crowd thins out.

“He’ll be fine, Lando,” Logan says lightly. “He’s annoyingly good at bouncing back.”

Oscar nods, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease.

“You sure you’re okay?” Logan asks after a beat. “You look like you’re about to punch something.”

“Yeah… no…” Oscar sighs. “I don’t know. Worried about Lando I guess.” Oscar looks down at his hands. “He hates stuff like this, when it slips through his fingers.”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees. “Anyone leading a championship would.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes Oscar glance at him.

“You’ve been there,” Oscar says quietly. “F2.”

Logan shrugs. “Different scale but yeah, it gets loud in your head.”

They walk a few more steps in silence.

Logan nudges him gently with his elbow. “You’re not just worried about the points though are you?”

Oscar hesitates, he could brush it off, say it’s nothing. Instead, the words spill out in a rush he doesn’t expect. “He just… he shuts down sometimes,” Oscar says. “Or gets really focused, like nothing else exists. And I know why, I do. But it still…” He cuts himself off, frustrated with his own inability to articulate it.

“Still hurts?” Logan supplies quietly.

Oscar nods once.

Logan doesn’t push, doesn’t joke. “You care about him,” he says simply.

Oscar exhales through his nose. “Yeah, I love him.”

“And you’re worried he’s going to spiral.”

“Yeah.”

Logan hums. “He probably will after this.”

Oscar grimaces.

“But that just means he’s human,” Logan adds quickly.

Oscar glances at him, surprised by how steady his tone is.

They reach a quieter corner near one of the outer fences. The noise of the paddock fades into a distant murmur.

Oscar leans back against the barrier, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want to make it worse,” he admits. “By hovering.”

“You don’t strike me as a hoverer,” Logan says.

Oscar huffs a faint smile. “Thanks.”

They end up talking for longer than Oscar expects, about racing, about the weirdness of being young in this sport, about how strange it is to have people analyse your every move like it’s a character flaw instead of a learning curve. Oscar’s surprised to find Logan is easy to talk to and he feels some of the tightness in his chest ease as the minutes pass.

He jumps when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He glances down and sees a text from Flo. ‘Lando should be done with debrief in 5 mins. We’re heading to dinner soon x.’

“Duty calls?” Logan asks.

“Yeah, uh, Lando’s family are going to dinner.”

Logan nods. “You going?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hey,” Logan says casually, rocking back on his heels. “We should hang out properly sometime. Not just random paddock therapy sessions.”

Oscar laughs, warmth blooming in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

“Cool.”

They stand there for a second longer than necessary. Then Oscar pushes off the barrier. “I should go.”

“Go,” Logan says. “He’ll need you.”

Oscar nods once, grateful for the lack of judgement in his voice.

As he turns to leave, Logan calls after him lightly, “And hey, you’re doing fine. Just in case you needed to hear it.”

Oscar glances back, surprised. “Thanks.” He walks back toward the papaya glow, the weight in his chest still there but less suffocating now.

Oscar makes it back to McLaren hospitality just as the debrief ends. Engineers spill out of the room first, murmuring in low tones, tablets tucked under arms.

Lando steps out last. His hoodie up over his head, the curls Oscar can see are flattened with sweat, and his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at anyone properly, just nods stiffly as someone says something about long run pace. He catches sight of his family in the corner of the lounge, gives them a quick, thin smile, then moves straight past into his driver room.

Oscar’s stomach twists. He waits two seconds, then follows.

Lando pushes the door open with force, the sound of it hitting the wall echoing in the hospitality space. Lando steps inside without looking back. Oscar reaches the room just as the door’s about to close and pushes it gently, so it stays ajar. He steps inside carefully but doesn’t shut the door all the way, he doesn’t want this to feel like a confrontation. Lando drops into the chair by the desk, rubbing both hands over his face.

“You drove well,” Oscar says softly.

No response.

Oscar tries again. “P5’s not the end of the world. You’re still leading. You’ll come through tomorrow, you always do.”

Lando’s shoulders tense. “Osc,” he mutters.

“You’ve got strong race pace,” Oscar continues, moving closer. “And you’ve overtaken here before. You can podium from fifth, you can win from fifth.”

“Stop,” Lando says. It’s quiet, but sharp.

Oscar freezes. “I’m just saying…”

“I know what you’re saying,” Lando snaps, looking up at him now. There’s frustration burning in his eyes, too bright. “You don’t need to give me the motivational pep talk.”

Oscar swallows. “I’m not. I’m just trying to…”

“Trying to what?” Lando shoots back. “Fix it?”

Silence drops between them.

“I’m trying to support you,” Oscar says, voice smaller now. “I know how much this means to you Lando.”

Lando exhales harshly, pushing back from the desk. “Do you?”

“What?” Oscar blinks, the question lands harder than Oscar expects. “Yes,” he says, steadying himself. “I do.”

“No you don’t Oscar,” Lando says, pacing once across the small room. “You don’t know what this feels like. To be this close to the championship and to know that one bad lap could cost everything.”

“That’s pressure Lando,” Oscar’s chest tightens. “I know what pressure is,” he says quietly.

Lando lets out a hollow laugh. “Not like this. You’ve never fought for a championship.”

Oscar steps closer, heart pounding. “You don’t get to decide what I understand.”

Lando scoffs, pacing another tight line across the driver room. “I’m not deciding anything, I’m just saying this is different.”

“Different how?”

“Because this is a championship,” Lando snaps. “Because it’s the thing I’ve worked my entire life for. You don’t just wake up and shrug P5 off like it’s a win.” Lando drags a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him. “P5 is a mistake, and every mistake…”

“I know what a mistake costs,” Oscar cuts in.

“I’m not saying you don’t Osc,” Lando says, exasperated. “I’m saying this is on another level.”

“And you think that makes you the only one allowed to be scared?”

Lando opens his mouth, closes it again.

Oscar presses on. “You act like I’m just going to stand here to watch you implode. I promised you I would help when you get too in your head.”

Lando’s eyes snap to his. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you talking to me like I’m clueless.”

Lando’s voice rises. “Because you haven’t had a world championship on the line!”

Oscar’s eyes flash. “And you think I’ve never had something on the line?” He fires back. “You think the contract stuff wasn’t pressure?”

“That’s politics,” Lando says, running a hand through his hair. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Because this,” Lando gestures helplessly around them, “this could be the last real shot I get at it.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. They’re both breathing hard now, words tumbling over each other.

“You don’t know what it’s like to carry this,” Lando says, voice cracking at the edges. “To know one mistake changes everything.”

“But you’re not alone in carrying this Lando.” Oscar shoots back. “I’m here, you’re family’s all here. We can carry it too.”

“God, that’s not enough.”

“Lando…”

Lando drags both hands down his face. “You don’t understand.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You don’t though.”

“Then explain it to me! Why wouldn’t I get it?”

Lando’s composure finally fractures. “Because you’re a kid, Oscar!” The words tear out of him, loud and raw, echoing off the small walls.

The silence crashes down around Oscar, he feels the cold air move over his whole body despite the heat rushing up his neck and into his cheeks.

The door behind them swings wider. “Lando Norris!” Cisca’s voice is sharp, cutting through the room like a whip. She stands in the doorway, eyes blazing, the kind of stern that only a mother can summon. “You do not speak to him like that,” she says, stepping inside.

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean…”

“No,” she interrupts. “You do not get to take your frustration out on him.”

Oscar’s throat burns. He stares at the floor, anywhere but at Lando. His fingers have curled into fists at his side so hard his nails are biting into his palms. He feels the sting behind his eyes and hates it, hates that his body is betraying him like this, hates that he probably looks exactly like he feels, young and wounded.

Cisca moves to Oscar’s side and wraps an arm around him protectively. “He is not a child,” she says firmly. “And just because he is younger than you does not give you the right to belittle him.”

Lando’s anger drains as quickly as it flared, leaving something stricken behind. “Osc,” he says, softer now, stepping forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

But Oscar shakes his head. “I don’t… I… I need some air,” he finally gets out. He walks past Lando without meeting his eyes. Behind him, he hears Lando say his name again, the frustration gone, replaced with regret. But Oscar doesn’t stop, he doesn’t turn around, he just leaves.

Chapter Text

Oscar lies on his side in the hotel bed facing the wall, the sheets twisted around his legs, the pillow damp where his face has been pressed into it. His eyes ache, they feel raw and swollen, skin tight from crying too hard and too long. Every time he blinks it stings.

When Oscar had left Lando’s driver room, he didn’t have any direction in mind, he just walked. He passes Lando’s family, Flo reaching out instinctively, fingers brushing Oscar’s arm, but he steps just out of reach without meaning to.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, though no one had asked. He isn’t.

He pushes through the glass doors and into the humid night air of Qatar. The heat hitting him like a wall, thick and suffocating, but it was better than the fluorescent glare inside, better than the echo of Lando’s voice in his head.

He hates how much it hurts. He hates that Lando’s words confirmed the quiet voice in the back of his mind that wonders if he is too young, too new, too small in comparison to the world Lando has already conquered.

He hadn’t realised he’d started crying until the tears hit the back of his hand. He wipes them away angrily, he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

Eventually, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, but he ignores it. He just keeps walking until the noise of the paddock fades, and the only sound left is the distant thrum of generators and the wind cutting across the asphalt.

By the time he makes it back to the hotel, it’s late. The corridors are quiet, carpet muffling his steps. His reflection in the mirrored lift doors looks pale, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He feels wrung out.

When he unlocks his hotel room door, the space inside feels too large. He lays down on the bed without turning the lights on, staring at nothing. The anger has burned down to something quieter now, something sadder.

He hears the hotel door open quietly, the sound of it makes his chest constrict. There is the faint click of it closing again, the soft thud of shoes dropped near the door. Lando moves around the room without speaking, careful in a way that makes Oscar’s stomach twist, as if he’s not sure he is allowed to be here.

The bathroom light flicks on briefly, then off. Then the mattress dips on the other side of the bed. For a long moment, Lando doesn’t do anything, he doesn’t move to lay down, he doesn’t move to wrap an arm around him like he normally does. Oscar feels the space between them like a physical thing. It hums. It aches.

“Osc,” Lando says finally, voice low and frayed at the edges.

Oscar does not answer.

“I’m sorry.” The apology is not defensive. It sounds tired, like it costs something.

Still, Oscar’s throat tightens.

The bed shifts again, closer this time. He feels the heat of Lando’s hand hovering near his hip before retreating slightly, like he is second guessing himself. “I don’t know how to fix this,” Lando says into the darkness. “But I need you to know the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”

Oscar lets out a small, broken breath. “You did though,” he says, and the crack in his voice betrays him.

“I know.” Lando’s voice wavers for just a second. “I know I did.” There is a beat of silence heavy enough to press down on his ribs. “I shouldn’t have called you that,” Lando continues, words coming slower now. “I shouldn’t have used your age against you. I’ve always said it doesn’t matter and then I…” He exhales sharply. “I threw it in your face the second I felt cornered.”

Oscar’s fingers curl into the sheet. “You made me feel small,” he admits quietly. “Like I don’t belong here, like I don’t belong with you.”

Lando inhales sharply behind him. “You do,” he says immediately. “You belong with me, you belong here. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Oscar asks, turning over abruptly. His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks blotchy, he doesn’t try to hide it.

Lando looks wrecked, his jaw is tight, eyes shadowed, shoulders hunched forward like he’s bracing for impact. “I’m not trying to make this about me, but I don’t think I’m completely okay Osc,” Lando says suddenly. The admission lands between them like something fragile and breakable.

Oscar freezes.

“I keep pretending I am,” Lando continues, staring at the ceiling instead of at him. “To everyone, to you.” His throat bobs. “But I’m not doing great. Not mentally.”

Oscar’s anger falters.

“I can feel it creeping back,” Lando says, pressing the heel of his hand into his temple. “The anxiety. That feeling like I can’t breathe unless I win. Like if I drop it now, everything falls apart.” He laughs under his breath, humourless. “I’ve been here before and I know what happens if I don’t get on top of it.”

Oscar shifts closer without thinking, fingers brushing Lando’s wrist.

“I’m scared it’s going to get bad again,” Lando whispers. There is no ego in it, no bravado, just genuine fear.

Oscar swallows hard. “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to dump it on you,” Lando snaps softly, then immediately shakes his head. “Sorry. I just… you’re already dealing with enough. The contract stuff, getting your seat for next year.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “And I keep telling myself I can handle it. Just get through the next race, just keep the points lead, just hold it together.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But I’m exhausted, Osc.”

The words break something open in Oscar’s chest.

“I wake up and it’s data. I go to sleep and it’s data. I can’t even watch a movie without thinking about tyre deg or race pace deltas.” His voice lowers. “And then I look at you and I realise I haven’t actually been present with you for weeks.”

Oscar’s throat tightens again.

“I don’t mean to make you an afterthought,” Lando says, voice cracking now. “But sometimes I feel like I’ve got nothing left and the person who gets the scraps is you.”

“Lando…” Oscar starts, even though part of him knows it feels true.

“It’s true,” Lando cuts in insistently. “And I hate it. I hate that I’m doing this to you.”

Silence settles over them again, heavier now.

“Next year,” Lando says quietly, almost to himself. “We’re teammates. We’ll be fighting each other, sharing a garage, competing for the same thing.” His jaw flexes. “It’s not going to get easier. If anything it’s going to get worse.”

Oscar feels the dread crawl up his spine. “What are you saying?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“I’m saying what if we can’t do this?” Lando says finally, meeting his eyes. “What if I can’t?”

The words slice. Oscar’s heart lurches. “You mean us?”

“Yeah.” Lando’s voice falters. “Us.” The room feels smaller. “What if I get so caught up in racing you that I start resenting it?” Lando continues. “Or you do. What if the pressure eats at us?”

Oscar’s chest aches at that. “You think I’m going to crumble because it’s hard?” Oscar asks, hurt bleeding through.

“No,” Lando says immediately. “I think you’re stronger than me most days.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Lando swallows. “I just don’t trust my own head sometimes.”

Oscar studies him. There is something terrifying about seeing Lando like this. Stripped of the easy grin, the confidence, the charm.

“I don’t need perfect,” Oscar says quietly. “I don’t need you to always be steady. I just need you to not shut me out.”

Lando’s eyes flicker. “I’m scared I’m going to ruin this,” he admits.

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle remember?” Oscar shoots back, softer now but firm. “You think I don’t wake up at three in the morning thinking about next year? About walking into a garage next to a four-time world champion and wondering if I’m going to be invisible?”

Lando goes still.

“I’m scared too,” Oscar says. “I just don’t take it out on you.” The words hang there, painful and honest.

Lando closes his eyes briefly. “I know,” he whispers. “None of this excuses the way I talked to you.”

Oscar’s chest tightens.

“I don’t get to take that out on you, no matter how much I’m struggling.” Lando says, more firmly now. “I don’t get to throw your age in your face like that, and I definitely don’t get to call you a kid like it’s some weapon.”

Silence stretches between them.

“I was frustrated,” Lando admits. “I was scared. And instead of saying that, I just… I aimed it at you. I’m sorry,” Lando says again. “For all of it.”

“I know,” is all Oscar says back. He turns his head toward Lando who is already looking at him. There’s a softness in his expression, something fragile around the edges, and a small, apologetic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

They don’t speak. They just lie there, facing each other in the quiet, the space between them heavy but honest, holding each other’s gaze like it’s the only thing keeping everything from splintering further.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Lando says finally.

Oscar’s throat burns. “Then don’t,” he replies.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It can be,” Oscar insists. “We just have to let it.”

Lando looks unconvinced. “I’ve been talking to my therapist about it,” he admits quietly. “They’re recommending I do a program to help with my anxiety once the season is over.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. “Are you going to?”

“I don’t know.” Lando sighs. “Do you think I should?”

“That’s not my decision to make Lando. You’ve got to decide that for yourself,” he says, though his own certainty wavers at the edges.

Lando searches his face, as if trying to borrow that certainty. “You really believe we can make it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Oscar says.

There is a long silence.

“I want to believe that,” Lando murmurs. He reaches for Oscar then, finally pulling him into his chest properly. The hug is tight, almost desperate. Oscar buries his face against him, breathing in the familiar scent of him, trying to anchor himself.

“I love you,” Lando whispers into his hair.

Oscar closes his eyes. “I know,” he says softly, even though the words still feel fragile. “I love you too.”

He believes in them. But as he lies there, listening to the faint tremor still threaded through Lando’s breathing, he cannot shake the feeling that they are standing on something unstable. And that loving each other might not be enough to stop it from cracking.

…

The next day feels heavier than the desert heat. Oscar wakes before his alarm, the argument from the night before still sitting in his chest like something bruised. Lando is already awake beside him, staring at the ceiling. They don’t talk about it again. They move around each other carefully, quietly, like they are both aware that one wrong word could crack something open again.

At the track, the air hums with tension. Two races left in the season. A ten point championship lead reduced to hypotheticals and the way commentators keep repeating the maths like it is gospel.

The McLaren hospitality is already busy when Oscar steps inside, the low hum of race morning threaded with nerves and too much coffee. He spots the Norris’ immediately, a cluster of familiar faces in papaya caps and soft smiles.

Cisca is the first to see him. “Oscar,” she says warmly, stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug that feels steadier than he expects. “Good morning, darling.”

He forces a smile into place. “Morning.”

Adam claps him on the shoulder. Lando’s siblings wave, easy and bright. It’s normal, it’s almost normal.

Cisca doesn’t let him go straight away. She leans back just enough to look at him properly, her hands still resting lightly on his arms. Her gaze is gentle but searching. “How are you?” she asks quietly.

Oscar shrugs, the movement too quick. “I’m okay. We’re okay,” he adds before she can press. “We talked, he apologised.” It sounds rehearsed even to his own ears.

Cisca tilts her head slightly. “Did he?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, nodding once. “He was just frustrated. He’s got a lot on his plate, I get it.”

He keeps his tone even, measured, the way he does in interviews when he doesn’t want to give anything away. He looks over her shoulder like he’s checking for someone else, like the conversation is already over.

Cisca watches him for a beat longer than is comfortable. “And you?” she asks softly. “Are you alright?”

Oscar’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before he smooths it away. “I’m fine, honestly. We sorted it.”

She sees straight through him, he knows she does. There’s something in her eyes, not judgement, not anger, just understanding. The kind that makes his throat feel tight.

But she nods anyway. “Okay,” she says gently. “If you say so.” Her hand squeezes his arm once more. “We’ll talk later.”

Oscar manages a small smile. “Okay.”

McLaren staff move around them, calling out to one another, preparing for the race. The day is starting whether any of them are ready for it or not.

Cisca smooths an invisible crease from his sleeve, motherly without making a scene. “Whatever happens today,” she says quietly, “remember you’re allowed to feel it too.”

Oscar swallows and nods.

Then she steps back, the moment folding away as Lando appears out of his drivers room, helmet tucked under his arm, already carrying the weight of the race on his shoulders.

Oscar straightens automatically, race mode on, though he feels Cisca’s eyes on him still.

Oscar ends up watching the race beside Cisca in the McLaren garage. Her fingers worry at the edge of her phone case. She tries to look composed but she doesn’t quite manage it.

“He’s strong on long runs,” Oscar says quietly, more to himself than to her. “Race pace is good.”

Cisca nods. “He just needs a clean start.”

On the grid, Lando looks focused, controlled, but Oscar knows him well enough now to see the strain in the set of his jaw.

The lights go out. The first corner is chaos, there’s sparks and smoke from a Williams lock up which forces Lando wide. Oscar feels his breath hitch as he watches Lando’s back tyre brush the wall, a faint scrape that’s enough to cause the rear of the car to jolt slightly but not enough to pull it off track. Lando is able to keep the car stable, holding onto P5 like nothing happened.

“He holds it, he holds P5,” the commentator shouts. “Norris survives a brush at turn one.”

Oscar doesn’t realise he has been holding his breath until Cisca squeezes his arm.

Lap by lap, Lando claws forward. A dive into turn one that makes the crowd gasp. A late brake into the hairpin that is millimetre perfect.

“And Norris is up to P4, that’s clinical.”

By halfway through the race, Lando is third. George sits in second. Max in first. The points projection graphic flickers at the bottom of the screen. If it finishes like this, the gap closes completely and Max and Lando will be on equal points going into the last race.

Lando hunts. The move around the outside of George for second is precise.

“And that’s Norris into P2! That could be huge for the title fight.”

Oscar exhales so sharply his lungs hurt.

Cisca’s grip tightens. “Come on, Lan,” she whispers under her breath.

The final laps feel endless. Lando pushes but Max is too far ahead. The chequered flag falls. P2. The championship lead drops to three points. Oscar stands still for a moment, absorbing it. It is not the disaster qualifying hinted at but it’s not totally comfortable either.

In parc fermé, Lando pulls off his helmet and for a second his shoulders sag. He looks up and scans the crowd. When he finds Oscar, the exhaustion on his face softens into something warmer. He moves through the swarm of engineers and media, ducking a camera and brushing off a hand on his shoulder until he is standing in front of Oscar.

Up close, he looks drained, eyes still rimmed with a slight red tinge, sweat drying in uneven streaks along his temples. “You were right,” Lando says, breath still coming a little fast. “About believing in me.”

Oscar blinks. “I said you’d come back through.”

“You always seem to have this unwavering belief in me.” There is something vulnerable in the way Lando looks at him. “That I can come back from mistakes even when I don’t.”

Oscar shrugs, trying to make it smaller than it feels. “Because you do always come back from mistakes.”

Lando’s hand finds his wrist and squeezes gently. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For that. For not… giving up on me.”

The words sting in a way Oscar does not expect. “I’m not going anywhere,” he replies.

For a moment it feels like they are the only two people there. Then Lando is being pulled away by his PR manager to give an interview, microphones shoved toward him. The questions come at him quickly and sharply.

“Three point lead now, Lando. Does that feel like momentum slipping?”

“Are you worried the pressure is getting to you after that qualifying error?”

Lando smiles that tight, controlled media smile. “Pressure’s part of it,” he says evenly. “Yesterday was frustrating. Today we did damage limitation. It’s still in our hands.”

Oscar watches from the edge, studying the micro-expressions most people miss, the flicker of irritation, the way Lando’s jaw tightens at certain words.

By the time he finishes, Lando looks more tired than he did climbing out of the car.

They regroup near the hospitality unit where Lando’s family are waiting. Cisca reaches Lando first, wrapping him in a hug that swallows him whole. “You did what you needed to,” she says into his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Adam claps him on the back. Flo teases him about nearly giving them heart attacks. Oliver says something about it making better television this way.

Then Cisca turns to Oscar, she pulls him into her arms without hesitation. “I’m proud of you too,” she says firmly.

Oscar stiffens slightly. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she replies, holding him at arm’s length. “For standing there yesterday and not shrinking.”

He feels his throat tighten again.

“And you,” she says, swivelling sharply back to Lando, her tone changing entirely, “owe him more than one apology.”

Lando winces faintly. “Mum…”

“No,” Cisca says, stern. “I don’t care how stressed you are. You do not get to use his insecurities against him, especially not that one.”

“I know Mum,” Lando looks at Oscar as he says it. “I’ll make it up to him, don’t worry.”

Oscar’s stomach flips. He glances down. “We’re okay,” he says quickly. “Really, we talked.”

Cisca’s eyes soften but she does not drop it. “Are you?”

Oscar nods.

Lando reaches for Oscar’s hand then, lacing their fingers openly this time. “We’re okay,” Lando confirms, squeezing gently.

Cisca studies the way their hands fit together. The way Lando doesn’t let go. She sighs, the edge fading from her voice. “Good,” she says quietly. “Because I won’t watch either of you to unravel before Abu Dhabi.”

Lando huffs out a tired laugh. “No pressure then.”

Adam chuckles. “Only the world championship.”

Oscar glances at Lando once the family start to disperse into different conversations. Lando’s smiling at something Flo is saying, he first real smile Oscar’s seen from Lando all day. He feels proud but he also feels terrified. But they’re okay, for now at least.

…

The hotel room is quiet in a way that feels unnatural after the noise of the paddock. The curtains are half drawn, city lights bleeding softly through the gaps. Somewhere below, traffic hums. The air conditioning ticks quietly overhead.

Lando shuts the door behind them and leans back against it for a second, eyes closing as though he is finally allowing the weight of the day to settle.

Oscar watches him.

Race suit gone, hair still slightly flattened from the helmet, the faint mark across the bridge of his nose from the visor. He looks older like this, not the cocky grin on the podium, not the media trained answers. He looks human.

“You okay?” Oscar asks softly.

Lando opens his eyes. “Yeah, I actually am.” Lando crosses the space between them, his fingers curl into the fabric of Oscar’s shirt, firm but careful, and he pulls him closer until there’s no space left between them. Chest to chest. Thigh to thigh. The solid, grounding warmth of Lando’s body against his.

“Osc,” Lando murmurs, voice rougher than usual.

Oscar doesn’t answer. He just lets himself be tugged in, palms sliding up Lando’s sides, feeling the tension still thrumming beneath his skin.

Lando kisses him slowly. His mouth presses to Oscar’s with a softness that feels almost reverent. He tilts his head, brushing their noses together first, like he’s checking in without words. Oscar exhales into the kiss, tension draining from his shoulders as Lando deepens it gently, lips moving in an unhurried rhythm.

Lando’s hands move from Oscar’s shirt to his waist, thumbs tracing small arcs just above his hips, pulling him impossibly closer. Oscar slides his own hands up into Lando’s hair, fingers curling there, holding him in place as their mouths part and meet again.

Lando kisses him like he’s apologising. Like he’s afraid Oscar might disappear if he doesn’t anchor him there.

The kiss grows deeper, but still unhurried. Lando’s mouth softens, then presses more firmly, coaxing a quiet sound from Oscar’s throat. Their breaths tangle. Their foreheads knock lightly before settling together, lips brushing again and again.

Oscar can feel the way Lando relaxes the longer they stay like this. The championship pressure, the fear, the argument from yesterday, the sharp words that still echo. They all melt away in the slow drag of their mouths against each other.

Lando’s hand slides up Oscar’s back, palm warm and steady, holding him flush against him. Oscar can feel Lando’s heart beating fast beneath his ribs.

When they finally part, it’s only barely. Their lips hover close, brushing with each breath.

Lando rests his forehead against Oscar’s. “Hi,” he whispers, softer now.

Oscar huffs out the smallest laugh, eyes still closed. “Hi.”

Lando kisses him again, once more, slow and sure, like he’s sealing something unspoken between them.

Lando’s mouth lingers against Oscar’s for a second longer before he pulls back just enough to look at him properly. His hands are still resting at Oscar’s waist, thumbs moving absently like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. The heat between them hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s sharper now.

Oscar’s hands reach for the zipper of Lando's McLaren jacket, pulling it down slowly to expose more of his bare chest. The metallic rasp of the zipper fills the quiet room, and Lando's breath hitches and his expression shifts. He looks careful, like he knows that if he does or says the wrong thing, it could ruin everything.

“Osc,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to… do anything. Not tonight.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“I mean it.” Lando swallows, jaw tightening slightly. “After yesterday, I don’t want you thinking this is…” He gestures vaguely between them. “…something you owe me or I owe you, that sex is going to magically fix things.”

Oscar studies him for a second. “You think I’d sleep with you out of obligation?”

“No,” Lando says quickly. “No. I just… I don’t want to blur the lines. Not when things are already… complicated.”

Oscar exhales slowly. “Do you remember,” Oscar says carefully, “when you told me to figure out what I like, what gets me going?”

Lando’s brow furrows. “Yeah?”

“Well.” Oscar huffs out a breath that’s half a laugh. “Turns out bottling up a week’s worth of tension and stress and wanting you makes it pretty clear.”

Lando goes very still. “Oscar,” he warns softly.

Oscar shakes his head, stepping closer again until their chests brush. “Okay that didn’t come out right, I’m not saying I figured out that us fighting makes me want to have sex, that’s not healthy,” he says, voice lower now. “I’m saying that all the pent up tension and me just wanting to be with you all week, it’s got me completely riled up.”

Lando’s hands tighten instinctively on his hips. “And?” he asks, almost cautious.

“And right now,” Oscar continues, cheeks warming but refusing to look away, “all I really want is to fuck it out.”

“Fuck it out?” Lando smiles.

Oscar swats at Lando’s chest. “Don’t laugh at me.”

A slow disbelieving smile continues to tug at the corner of Lando’s mouth. “You’re serious?”

Oscar nods once. “Very.”

Lando searches his face, the smile fading into something softer, more protective. “This isn’t you trying to distract yourself?” he asks gently. “Or are you actually okay?”

Oscar reaches up, pressing his palm flat against Lando’s chest, right over his heart. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’m not trying to fix us with sex. I just… I want you. And I’m tired of feeling like everything’s about pressure and expectations and what could go wrong.” His voice drops slightly. “I just want us. No formula one, no championship.”

Something in Lando’s expression breaks open at that. He leans his forehead against Oscar’s again. “You’re sure?” he asks one more time, softer now.

Oscar nods. “I’m sure.”

A small, relieved exhale leaves Lando’s mouth. “God,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

Oscar smirks faintly. “Pretty sure I do.”

Lando huffs out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, then kisses him again. Hands slide lower, grip firmer, but still careful. Always checking, always waiting for even the slightest hesitation. There isn’t any.

Oscar deepens the kiss first, fingers tangling into Lando’s hair, pulling him closer with quiet certainty. Lando reaches down and tugs at the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over Oscar's head in one fluid motion. Oscar retaliates by pushing the jacket off Lando’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor by his feet.

Lando's torso is flushed, muscles defined from the exertion of the race, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow under the soft lighting. Oscar's fingers trace the lines of Lando's abs, feeling them tense and flex under his touch, the warmth radiating from Lando's body drawing him in. He slides his hands up to Lando's pecs, thumbs brushing over nipples that harden instantly, pebbling under the attention.

Lando groans softly, hands coming up to grip Oscar's hips, once again pulling him flush against his body. Their mouths meet in a hungry kiss, lips crashing together with the pent up energy of the last week. Oscar tastes the salt on Lando's tongue, feels the scrape of stubble as Lando deepens it, sucking lightly on Oscar's lower lip before nipping at it gently.

Oscar's hands roam freely, one tangling in Lando's curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to elicit a low hum from Lando, the other dipping lower to palm the growing bulge in Lando's pants. Lando bucks into the touch, a muffled moan vibrating between them, and Oscar smiles against his mouth. He feels like he can do this more confidently now, knows how to touch Lando, how to tease him, from the nights they've spent exploring with hands and whispers, learning the map of each other's desires.

They break apart only to strip further, clothes shedding like second skins. Lando kicks off his pants and briefs, his cock springing free, thick and half hard, curving up toward his stomach, the head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum.

Oscar follows suit, shedding his jeans with deliberate slowness, letting Lando's eyes rake over him. His own erection strains against his boxers before he shoves them down, freeing himself, the cool air of the room making him shiver.

Naked now, they tumble toward the bed, Lando pulling Oscar down on top of him, their bodies aligning in a tangle of limbs. Skin slides against skin, hot and urgent, cocks brushing together in a way that sends sparks up Oscar's spine. He grinds down instinctively, drawing a gasp from Lando.

Oscar's lips trail down Lando's jaw, nipping at the skin, then lower to his throat, sucking a mark just above the collarbone. The skin there is sensitive, Lando's pulse racing under his tongue, and Oscar sucks harder, feeling the flesh yield, blooming red under his mouth. Lando arches, fingers digging into Oscar's back, urging him on, nails scraping lightly in a way that makes Oscar's breath stutter.

“Osc, fuck,” Lando breathes, head tipping back to give more access, exposing the long line of his neck. Oscar takes it, tongue laving over the pulse point before moving to Lando's chest. He captures a nipple between his teeth, biting gently then soothing with a swirl of his tongue, feeling it tighten further. Lando's hips jerk up, cock sliding against Oscar's thigh, leaving a wet trail of pre-cum that slicks their skin. Oscar switches sides, lavishing the other nipple with the same attention, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, until Lando is writhing beneath him, breaths coming in short pants.

His hand wraps around Lando's length, stroking slow and firm, thumb circling the head to spread the pre-cum beading there, making the glide smoother. Lando's cock throbs in his grip, hot and velvet smooth, veins pulsing under his fingers. Oscar pumps faster, twisting at the base just how Lando likes it, remembering the way Lando had guided his hand before, the praises that followed. He leans down, kissing across Lando's ribs, dipping his tongue into the dip of his navel, feeling Lando shiver, muscles contracting under the wet heat.

“Lando,” Oscar says, voice rough with want, meeting Lando's eyes for a beat. “Can I…”

Lando nods before Oscar can even finish asking, propping himself on his elbows to watch, that grin flickering back, though his cheeks are flushed. Oscar settles between Lando's spread thighs, the musky scent of him filling Oscar's senses, making his mouth water and his own cock ache against the sheets. He runs his hands up Lando's legs, thumbs pressing into the tense muscles of his inner thighs, parting them wider. Lando's cock stands proud, and Oscar leans in, breath ghosting over the tip first, watching Lando's cock twitch in anticipation, a fresh drop of pre-cum welling up.

Oscar starts slow, lips brushing the head, tongue flicking out to taste the saltiness, swirling around the slit. Lando hisses, hand coming to rest lightly in Oscar's hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers threading through the strands.

Emboldened, Oscar takes him in deeper, mouth stretching around the girth, sucking with steady pressure that makes Lando's thighs quiver. He bobs his head, taking more with each pass, tongue pressing flat along the underside, tracing the prominent vein that runs the length. Saliva builds, dripping down to ease the way, and Oscar hums around the length, the vibration pulling a curse from Lando's lips, his hips lifting slightly off the bed.

“God, Osc, you're… fuck, you’re so good at this now,” Lando pants, fingers tightening in Oscar's hair, but still gentle, letting Oscar set the pace.

The praise sends a thrill through Oscar, heat pooling in his gut, his own cock leaking steadily onto the bed. He focuses on Lando, quickening his pace, knowing now to open the back of his throat as he takes him deeper, nose brushing the coarse hair at the base. One hand strokes what he can't fit, twisting in time with his mouth, the other cupping Lando's balls, rolling them gently, tugging lightly to heighten the sensation.

Lando's moans grow louder, unrestrained, filling the room, “Yes, like that, fuck, Osc,” and Oscar feels him swell, the telltale throbbing warning of impending release, Lando's body tensing, breaths ragged.

But Lando tugs at his hair gently, pulling him off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting Oscar's lips to the flushed head. “Stop… wait, not yet,” Lando says, voice strained, chest heaving as he fights for control. Oscar looks up, lips shiny and swollen, concern flickering until Lando smiles, thumb wiping at the corner of his mouth, smearing the mess. “Your turn, yeah? Wanna try something.” His eyes are dark with intent, and Oscar's pulse races, a mix of nerves and excitement churning in his stomach.

Lando manoeuvres them with ease, flipping positions so Oscar's on his back, legs parting instinctively under Lando's guiding hands. Lando kisses him deeply, tasting himself on Oscar's tongue, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he licks into Oscar's mouth. Then he trails down his body, nipping at collarbones, sucking marks on his chest that mirror the ones Oscar left on him, teeth grazing skin until Oscar's back arches, seeking more. Oscar's skin prickles with goosebumps, every touch igniting nerves he's only begun to map, his cock hard and untouched, bobbing against his stomach.

Lando's hands slide under his thighs, lifting and spreading them wider, exposing him completely to the cool air and Lando's heated gaze. Oscar's breath catches, vulnerability mixing with excitement, a flush creeping up his neck. Lando settles between his legs, lips brushing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teeth grazing lightly, sucking a faint mark there that makes Oscar's toes curl.

Then, lower, his tongue traces the crease where thigh meets groin, teasing closer to Oscar's hole, hot breath fanning over the area. The first touch is a surprise, Lando's finger, slick with spit from their earlier kisses, circling the tight ring of muscle. It's tentative at first, just pressure, but the sensation is unexpected, foreign, a pressure that's both intrusive and intriguing, sending a spark up Oscar's spine that makes his whole body jolt.

Oscar jumps visibly, body tensing, a gasp escaping him as his legs clamp instinctively. It's not pain, just the shock of it, the intimacy of that untouched spot being breached even superficially.

Lando pulls back immediately, eyes wide with concern, hand soothing on Oscar's thigh, rubbing circles to calm him. “Shit sorry, Osc, it was too much wasn’t? We can stop.” His voice is soft, laced with genuine apology, ready to back off if needed.

Oscar shakes his head, cheeks flushing hot, but he meets Lando's gaze steadily, the initial shock fading, replaced by curiosity, a want to explore this new territory despite the nerves. He's come so far already, and the trust between them makes him bold. “No, it's okay. Actually... keep going. I want to feel it. Just... go slow.” His voice is steady, the confidence he's been building shining through, surprising even himself, and Lando's expression softens into relief and affection, a warm smile breaking across his face.

“Alright, slow, yeah? Tell me if it's not good, okay?”

Oscar nods. “Okay.”

Lando grabs the lube from the nightstand, always prepared, and coats his fingers generously, the squelch audible in the quiet room. He starts again, circling gently with the pad of his finger, the cool slickness easing the way, warming quickly against Oscar's skin. Oscar forces himself to relax, breathing deep, focusing on Lando's reassuring eyes, the way his free hand strokes Oscar's thigh, grounding him. The finger presses in, just the tip, breaching the ring of muscle, and it's strange, stretching in a way Oscar's never known, a slight burn that fades into pressure.

He tenses again, muscles clenching, but Lando pauses, kissing his thigh softly and murmuring, “Breathe, Osc. Focus on me yeah? Helps make it easier.”

Oscar does, exhaling slowly, and the intrusion slides deeper, the burn minimal now, replaced by a building pressure that borders on good, nerves firing in unfamiliar patterns. Lando works him open patiently, twisting gently, letting Oscar adjust to the sensation of being filled.

“How's that? Feel alright?” Lando asks, voice husky, eyes locked on Oscar's face for any sign of discomfort.

Oscar nods, biting his lip, the fullness growing as Lando adds a second finger when Oscar gives the go-ahead, scissoring slowly to stretch the tight walls. It's more intense now, the stretch pulling at him, but Oscar breathes through it, hips shifting slightly to find a better angle. The lube makes everything slick, wet sounds accompanying each movement, obscene and arousing.

Then Lando curls his fingers, searching deliberately, and brushes against that spot inside, a firm nudge to his prostate. Oscar's world tilts, a bolt of pleasure shoots through him, white-hot and intense, unlike anything he's felt before, making his cock jerk untouched, pre-cum spurting onto his abs in a thick bead. He cries out, back arching off the bed, legs trembling around Lando's shoulders. It's electric, radiating from deep inside, coiling tight in his gut and spreading to his limbs, his vision blurring at the edges.

“Fuck! Lando, what was that?” Oscar gasps, eyes wide, body still quaking from the aftershocks, chest heaving as he tries to process the overwhelming rush.

Lando grins, wicked and knowing, fingers stroking that spot again, lighter this time, drawing a whine from Oscar's throat, his hips bucking involuntarily. “Your prostate, Osc. Feels good, right? Gonna make you see stars if you let me.”

He pumps his fingers steadily now, hitting it with each thrust, building the sensation layer by layer, the pressure mounting relentlessly. Oscar's moans fill the room, raw and desperate, body surrendering to the onslaught. His cock throbs painfully hard, untouched, the pleasure from inside amplifying everything. The coil in his gut tightens too fast, too intense, he's going to cum, embarrassingly soon, without even a hand on him, the sensations crashing over him like a wave.

“Lando stop, I'm gonna… too soon, fuck,” Oscar pants, hand reaching to grip Lando's wrist, panic edging his voice, embarrassment flooding him even as pleasure spikes. He doesn't want to finish like this, not yet, not when they've only just started.

Lando stills his fingers but doesn't pull out, leaning up to kiss Oscar softly, grounding him with the press of lips, tasting the salt of sweat on his skin. “Hey, remember when I bet I could make you come twice, and you said we could try another time?” Lando smirks. “Kind of hoping you’ll let me try it now?”

Oscar swallows hard, the reminder steadying him. He finds that he wants to push his limits, to let Lando lead him there, to discover more of what his body can do. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?” Lando’s eyes light now. “Trust me, it'll be worth it. Just breathe through it, yeah? I've got you.” His voice is gentle, coaxing, eyes locked on Oscar's with that unwavering support, thumb stroking his hip.

Lando resumes, slower at first, letting the rhythm build gradually, fingers curling and thrusting with precision, hitting the prostate over and over. Oscar's world narrows to the sensations, the stretch, the fullness, the electric jolts that make his toes curl and his breath hitch.

He grips the sheets, knuckles white, moans turning to pleas. “Lando, please, it's too much,” but he doesn't stop him, chasing the edge now. The pressure coils impossibly tight, pleasure stacking until it crests without warning. Oscar comes untouched with a shout, cock pulsing ropes of cum across his chest and stomach, the orgasm ripping through him harder than any before, waves of bliss crashing from his core outward. His vision whites out, limbs heavy and trembling, body shuddering as he rides it out, the prostate stimulation prolonging the release until he's oversensitive, gasping.

Lando eases his fingers out once Oscar calms, the slide slick and gentle, wiping them on a tissue from the nightstand before gathering him close, kissing his forehead, then his temple, murmuring praises. “You okay? That was intense. Fuck, you looked so good like that.” His arms wrap around Oscar, holding him steady as the aftershocks fade, their bodies sticky with sweat and cum.

Oscar nods, boneless and glowing, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he catches his breath. “Yeah... fuck, that was amazing. Never knew it could feel like that.”

They lie there a moment, breaths syncing, hearts pounding in unison, but the heat hasn't faded. Oscar's already stirring, the afterglow and Lando’s promise of making him come twice fuelling his want for more, his cock twitching against Lando's thigh. He feels empowered, like he's unlocked something new in himself, ready to give back.

“Your turn properly now,” Oscar says, voice husky, rolling them so he's hovering over Lando, straddling his hips. He grabs the lube, slicking his fingers generously, the cool gel warming in his palm. Lando spreads his legs eagerly, knees bending, guiding Oscar's hand with a nod.

Oscar presses in, feeling the tight heat give way, Lando's walls clenching around him, velvety and welcoming. He thrusts slowly, exploring, then curls his fingers, stroking the prostate he knows is there.

Lando's face contorts in pleasure, head thrown back, lips parted on gasps. “Right there, Osc… fuck, yes.”

Oscar adds a third finger, scissoring to stretch, the slick sounds obscene, Lando's cock leaking steadily onto his stomach, hard and flushed.

Lando's hand reaches for his own length, stroking lazily, but Oscar bats it away gently. “Let me.” He leans down, taking Lando into his mouth briefly, sucking the head with a swirl of tongue, tasting the salty pre-cum while his fingers thrust deeper, syncing the rhythm.

Lando moans, hips rolling up, body arching off the bed, hands fisting the sheets. “Osc, I’m… I’m ready when you are. Need you inside.”

Oscar pulls back, his cock fully hard again from the sounds Lando's making. He moves to grab a condom from the bedside table but Lando stops him with a hand on his thigh, eyes earnest under the lust.

“Wait, would you... want to go without? I'm clean, I got tested right after we started dated, and you're... you haven't been with anyone else.” His voice is vulnerable, hopeful, the trust laid bare.

Oscar hesitates only a second, the trust is there, solid, built on months of closeness. No barriers, just them. “Yeah, okay.”

Lando smiles, that bright and full smile that always makes something flutter in Oscar’s chest. Lando pulls him down for a searing kiss, tongues tangling as Oscar pushes in slow, the bare slide into Lando's heat overwhelming with no latex dulling it. Every ridge, every pulse registers sharply, the warmth enveloping him completely, making Oscar groan low in his throat, burying deep until his balls press against Lando's skin.

“Fuck, Lando, it’s so… it feels…” The sensation is intense, the drag exquisite as he pulls back slightly, then thrusts forward again, testing the rhythm.

“I know Osc,” Lando reaches for Oscar’s hands where they’re bracing him above Lando’s head and laces them together.

They move together, Oscar thrusting steady at first, savouring the bare friction, the way Lando's walls flutter around him. Lando's legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging deeper,

“Harder, yes, just like that, Osc.” Oscar obliges, pace building, hips snapping forward, the slap of skin echoing in the room, sweat-slick bodies sliding together. He angles his thrusts, aiming for Lando's prostate based on the gasps and moans, hitting it repeatedly.

“Osc! I’m gonna… God Osc, don't stop,” Lando warns, voice breaking, and he does, spilling between them with a cry, walls clenching rhythmically, milking Oscar's cock.

The squeeze tips him over, Oscar thrusts deep one last time, pulsing inside, cum flooding inside Lando in hot spurts filling him up. He collapses, still joined, kissing Lando lazily as they come down, breaths mingling, bodies trembling.

When he finally pulls out, the wet slide obscene, Oscar watches, mesmerised, as his cum drips from Lando's stretched hole, white and thick against the flushed, puffy skin, trickling down the inside of his thighs. It's filthy, intimate, his mark inside Lando, claiming in a way words can't. A thought flickers unexpectedly, what it would feel like reversed, Lando filling him like that, warm seed deep and spilling out? The idea sends a fresh twitch through his overstimulated cock, curiosity blooming alongside satisfaction, a spark for next time.

Lando catches his stare, smirking through the haze, hand cupping Oscar's cheek. “Like what you see?”

Oscar blushes but nods. Lando pulls him close with a laugh, arms wrapping around Oscar as his head settles on Lando’s chest.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that right?” Lando says into Oscar’s hair.

For a second he cannot do anything except stay there, tucked against Lando’s chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart beneath skin still warm and damp. The words settle over him slowly, like something precious being draped over his shoulders. Too big to take in all at once. Too soft, too earnest, too much like every quiet hope he has never really let himself name out loud.

His fingers curl tighter where they rest against Lando’s side. “You can’t just say things like that,” he murmurs, though there is no real protest in it. His voice comes out rough, small around the edges, and he feels Lando’s laugh rumble under his cheek.

“Why not?” Lando asks, still sounding unfairly pleased with himself. His hand stays cupped to the back of Oscar’s head now, thumb brushing lazily through his hair. “It’s true.”

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He lifts his head enough to look at him. Lando’s hair is a mess, his cheeks pink, his smile gentle. He looks wrecked in the nicest possible way, kissed soft and warm and completely his, and the sight of him sends something unbearably fond through Oscar’s chest. “You mean that,” Oscar says quietly.

Lando’s expression shifts at once, teasing draining away into something steady. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Oscar stares at him, heart beating so fast he is sure Lando can feel it between them. There are a hundred things he could say, probably something smoother, something lighter, something that does not sound as frighteningly honest as he feels. But Lando is looking at him like he wants the truth, and Oscar has never really stood a chance when it comes to giving him that. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me too,” Oscar admits.

Oscar presses one last soft kiss to Lando’s shoulder, letting himself settle into the quiet certainty that this, finally, is where he belongs.

Chapter Text

It’s Abu Dhabi. It’s the final race of the season. And there’s only three points between Lando and Max.

Everything feels sharper here. The sun hotter, the air heavier, the silence between conversations stretched thin with anticipation. Even the marina looks unreal, all white yachts and glittering water, like a backdrop built purely for drama.

The McLaren garage hums with a tight, controlled energy. Engineers move with purpose, headsets on, laptops open. No one is wasting words, no one is wasting time.

And Lando hasn’t stopped moving all morning. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, then stands still, then paces again. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, pulls his gloves halfway on and then takes them off again. His nervous energy is electric, vibrating through the entire garage.

Oscar stands near the monitors, arms folded loosely, watching without staring. He knows the signs by now. The way Lando’s jaw sets, the way he gets quieter when he’s this focused, the way he won’t look at anyone for too long because he’s afraid of seeing doubt reflected back at him.

Cisca is there too, hovering just behind the garage line, hands clasped in front of her. Adam stands beside her, outwardly calm but shifting his weight every few seconds. Flo and Cisca Jr whisper to each other, pretending not to be as nervous as they are. At least Oliver has the distraction of his two young kids who he’s currently trying to stop from touching everything.

Max F is next to Oscar, leaning casually against one of the tool cabinets, but Oscar catches the way his eyes track Lando constantly.

When Lando finally looks up and meets Oscar’s gaze, the world seems to narrow. He walks over without speaking. He doesn’t say anything when he stops in front of him either, there are cameras, mechanics, too many eyes.

Instead, Lando’s fingers brush against Oscar’s. It’s brief, almost invisible, but deliberate. Oscar feels it like a current up his spine. He lets his own fingers curl slightly, their knuckles pressing together for just a second longer than necessary. Lando’s thumb grazes his hand once before he pulls away.

Qualifying begins. Lando’s lap in Q1 is controlled aggression, he goes out early, lays down a strong time and then improves on it again. Purple sectors in the first run. The garage exhales as his name sits at the top.

Cisca presses her lips together, nodding. Adam mutters something under his breath that sounds like a prayer.

Q2 is tighter, Verstappen gets purple in the first and third sectors putting him comfortably on top. Oscar’s pulse refuses to settle, even though he knows Lando has pace. He watches the timing tower like it owes him something. Lando crosses the line, a tenth behind, but comfortably through.

Beside him, Max Fewtrell claps once, sharp and satisfied. “That’s it, keep building.”

Q3 starts and Lando sets a strong banker lap, not perfect, but enough to keep him in the hunt. Then a red flag stalls any momentum Lando had. They show Lando’s onboard as he crawls back to the pits. Lando’s helmeted head tilts slightly and Oscar knows the look that would be on his face under the helmet, it’s frustration tightly contained.

When Lando climbs out of the car during the stoppage, he heads straight for the monitors. Engineers swarm him to discuss adjustments, tyre temps and track evolution predictions.

Oscar catches Lando’s eyes through the chaos. He sees adrenaline there first, sharp and electric, pupils blown wide, like he’s still on track and hasn’t quite stepped back into his body yet. But beneath that is something raw and exposed. It’s vulnerability and overwhelm, like he’s standing at the centre of everything he’s ever wanted and doesn’t quite know how to hold it without breaking.

When their eyes lock, it softens. The bravado drops, the world champion façade slips, and what Oscar sees is Lando, stripped back and searching, needing to make sure he’s still there.

‘I love you,’ Oscar mouths in Lando’s direction.

Lando freezes just slightly. Even through the helmet, Oscar sees the change. The way Lando’s eyes soften, the corners crinkle like he’s smiling, his shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing.

The red flag ends and Lando is sent back out with just enough time for one more flying lap. The final run is frantic with cars jostling for track position, everyone desperate for clean air.

Oscar stands with Max and Lando’s parents, all of them staring at the sector times. Purple first sector, green middle sector. Max swears softly under his breath, one of Cisca’s hands finds Adam’s, the other grips Oscar’s tightly.

Final sector, the car looks on rails. Lando looks like he’s driving confidently, there’s no wobbles or twitches. When Lando crosses the line, all eyes turn to the timing screen, the time flashes up. P1.

For half a second, no one reacts. then the garage explodes. Engineers shout, someone punches the air, headsets are ripped off. Flo actually screams as Adam picks her up in hug, laughing loud and disbelieving. Cisca presses her hand to her mouth, eyes shining.

Max lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding all session and slaps the nearest mechanic on the back. “Yes, that’s how you answer,” he says, voice thick with pride.

Oscar doesn’t realise he’s grinning until his face aches.

On the screen, Lando’s name sits at the top of the tower. Pole position. For the final race of the season.

Lando pulls into parc fermé, climbs out of the car, and rips his helmet off. His hair is damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline. He turns in a slow circle, soaking in the noise from the grandstands. Then he looks toward the garage and finds Oscar instantly. His grin his magnetic.

Max nudges Oscar lightly with his elbow. “He’s not done yet,” he says quietly. “But that helps.”

Oscar nods, he knows. But for now, under the Yas Marina lights, with Lando’s family beaming and the team roaring around them, it feels like they’re exactly where they’re meant to be.

…

The only sound from within the hotel room in Abu Dhabi is the low buzz of the air conditioning. The lights are off with the city lights twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows like distant stars. Lando’s pacing the length of the suite, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. He's shirtless, wearing only loose joggers that hang low on his hips, revealing the v of muscle leading downward. His curls are tousled from running his hands through them repeatedly, and his eyes dart around the room constantly, checking his phone, then the tablet with race data, then back to pacing.

There’s an energy coiling out of him that is pure nerves, raw and jittery, the pressure of ending the season on a high note weighing heavy. Oscar watches from the edge of the bed, legs crossed, still in his team hoodie and shorts, trying to play it cool even as concern knots in his chest. He's seen Lando like this before, but tonight it feels amplified, the stakes higher than ever before.

Oscar's tried everything to settle him, a shoulder massage that started firm but turned into Lando shrugging it off with a distracted “Thanks, Osc, but I can't sit still.” Then suggestions of a hot shower, which Lando declined, muttering about needing to review telemetry one more time. Even a light-hearted joke about distracting him with bad reality TV fell flat, Lando forcing a chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.

Oscar shifts, frustration bubbling under his skin, he hates seeing Lando wound so tight, like a spring ready to snap. He wants to help, to ground him, to remind him he's not alone in this. “Okay sit down,”  Oscar says firmly, getting off the bed and stepping into Lando’s path and grabbing his arm.

Lando startles, eyes flicking to Oscar’s with that mix of surprise and exhaustion. With a gentle but insistent push, Oscar guides Lando toward the edge of the bed, and he drops onto it with a sigh, thighs spreading slightly as he leans forward, elbows on knees. Feeling a sudden surge of boldness, Oscar swings a leg over and straddles his lap, knees bracketing Lando’s hips. His hands automatically fall to Lando’s chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart under his palms, and eyes lock, daring him to move.

“Oscar…" he starts, voice rough, but Oscar just cuts him off by leaning in, lips brushing in a soft, teasing press.

Lando freezes for a beat, then melts into it, his hands coming up to grip Oscar’s waist, pulling him closer as their mouths move together. The kiss deepens fast, tongues sliding, a low hum vibrating from Lando’s throat as Oscar nips at his bottom lip.

Heat builds between them quickly, Oscar can feel Lando’s cock starting to harden against his arse through the thin fabric of their clothes. Oscar instinctively grinds down just a little, drawing a sharp inhale from Lando.

But then he pulls back, breaking the kiss with a ragged breath, forehead resting against Oscar’s. “Fuck, Osc, we can't,” he murmurs, voice strained, one hand sliding up to cup Oscar’s jaw while the other stays curved around his hip. “Not tonight. Not before the race tomorrow. I’m not overly keen on being too sore to sit in my car tomorrow.” Lando smiles playfully, thumb stroking Oscar’s cheek.

Oscar nods, the ache of want still thrumming through him but tempered by understanding. “I know, but…” Oscar says softly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns absentmindedly over Lando’s collarbone. “I don’t want to fuck you... I want you to fuck me this time, Lando.”

Lando freezes in place, his face snapping to meet Oscar’s, eyes wide with shock. The room seems to still, the only sound the faint hum from the mini fridge in the corner.

“What?” Lando blurts, voice pitching up, his face flushing a deep red that creeps down his neck. He’s searching Oscar's expression like he's trying to decipher if it's a joke or a hallucination from stress. “Osc, you... you're serious? Like, right now? I mean…” He gestures vaguely at himself, at the room, his nerves twisting into something more vulnerable. “You don't have to say that just to calm me down. I know I'm being a mess. We can just... talk or something, or not, whatever.” His words tumble out fast, laced with genuine worry, hands gripping Oscar tightly like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality right now.

Oscar wraps his arms around Lando’s neck, closing the distance between them even more, his heart pounding but steady in his resolve. He's been turning this over in his mind since that night in Qatar, the way Lando's cum had dripped from him, the curiosity igniting a quiet ache to feel it reversed, to be filled, to let Lando take control in that intimate way. It's not just to help, it's what he wants, the trust they've built making it feel right.

“I'm serious, Lando. I've been thinking about it since Qatar, wanting you to... to fuck me… to be the first. If you're up for it.” His cheeks heat, but he holds Lando's gaze, the confession hanging between them, raw and honest.

Lando's shock softens into something tender, his thumb stroking over waist. “Fuck, Osc... yeah, I'm up for it. But only if you're sure? And we go at your pace, always. Especially since this is your first time like this.”

He pulls Oscar into a gentle kiss, lips soft and reassuring, tasting faintly of the energy drink he'd been nursing. It's not rushed, Lando takes his time, nipping at Oscar's lower lip before deepening it, tongues sliding together in a slow exploration that eases the tension in both of them. His free hand cups the back of Oscar's neck, grounding him, and Oscar melts into it, the kiss building heat without urgency.

Lando falls backward onto the bed, Oscar laughing as he falls with him. Lando flips them, guiding Oscar down onto the cool sheets, the mattress dipping under their weight. Clothes come off layer by layer, Oscar's hoodie tugged over his head, revealing his lean torso, then his shorts and briefs slid down, Lando's joggers following suit.

Naked now, skin prickling in the air-conditioned chill, Lando hovers over him, eyes tracing every inch like he's memorizing. “You're beautiful, you know that?” Lando murmurs, voice low and sincere, leaning down to press open mouthed kisses along Oscar's collarbone, sucking lightly to leave faint pink marks that bloom under his lips.

Oscar shivers, hands roaming Lando's back, feeling the ripple of muscle as Lando shifts lower, tongue flicking over one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks down Oscar's spine.

Lando's mouth trails further, kissing across Oscar's abs, dipping into his navel before nuzzling the crease of his thigh. He bites gently there, not hard, just a teasing pressure that makes Oscar's breath hitch, his cock twitching against his stomach, already half-hard from the attention.

“Gonna make you feel good first, get you ready proper,” Lando says, grabbing the lube from the nightstand, always within reach these days, and slicking his fingers generously.

He starts with kisses around Oscar's length, tongue lapping at the base, then up the underside, but doesn't take him in yet focusing on building comfort and arousal. One finger circles Oscar's hole, pressing lightly, the cool gel warming quickly against the sensitive skin. “Breathe for me, Osc. Just like last time.”

Oscar nods, exhaling slow, his body tensing instinctively at the memory of that first stretch last time in Qatar, but Lando's patient, rubbing soothing circles on his hip with his free hand. The tip of his finger breaches the rim, sliding in smooth, the fullness immediate and strange again, but familiar enough not to cause him to jolt.

“That's it, relax into it,” Lando encourages, voice steady, pumping shallowly to let Oscar adjust.

He watches Oscar's face closely, pausing when muscles clench, kissing his inner thigh until they ease. Oscar feels the slide, the way the finger moves in and out, coating him inside with slickness, the initial tightness giving way to a subtle warmth.

Oscar’s hips shift slightly to test the sensation. Lando smiles, adding a twist to his movements, brushing against the inner walls, making Oscar's toes curl. After a few minutes, when Oscar's breaths even out and his cock hardens fully, leaking against his abs, Lando adds a second finger. The stretch pulls a soft groan from Oscar, sharper this time, the burn flickering at the edges, but Lando's lube-slicked hand works steadily, scissoring gently to open him wider. The pressure easing as the fingers thrust deeper, finding a rhythm that has him rocking back subtly to meet Lando’s hand, pleasure starting to thread through the discomfort.

Lando curls his fingers deliberately, seeking that spot inside, and when he finds it Oscar's hips buck, a sharp gasp escaping as electricity shoots through him, straight to his cock.

“Fuck, Lando,” Oscar moans, the sensation still feeling new and intense, like a live wire sparking deep in his core.

Lando grins against his skin, thrusting his fingers in rhythm, hitting the prostate repeatedly, building the pressure slow and relentless. He adds more lube, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, ensuring every glide is smooth.

Oscar's breaths come ragged, body arching, one hand fisting Lando's curls, the other gripping the pillow. The coil tightens in his gut, waves of heat building, but Lando senses it, slowing just enough to edge him without pushing over. “Not yet, want to make sure you're fully open for me so it’s more comfortable for you. One more finger, alright?”

Oscar nods, sweat beading on his forehead, the prospect that this is actually happening still both daunting and thrilling. Lando withdraws briefly to add more lube, then presses a third finger in alongside the others, the stretch burning anew, forcing a wince from Oscar.

“Breathe, I've got you Osc,”  Lando's voice is calm, his free hand stroking Oscar's thigh, thumb pressing into the muscle to distract.

Inch by inch, the fingers sink in, the fullness overwhelming, Oscar's hole clenching around them as he pants through the adjustment. It takes time, Lando murmuring praises, “So tight, so good for me,” twisting and spreading carefully, working the lube deep, hitting that spot again to mix pleasure with the ache. Oscar's body gradually yields, the burn fading into a deep, throbbing readiness, his cock throbbing untouched, pre-cum pooling on his skin.

“You doing okay?” Lando checks in.

“It feels... yeah, it’s better now,” Oscar whispers, surprised at his own boldness, the preparation turning nerves into anticipation.

Lando pauses, his fingers still buried deep inside, scissoring gently to stretch further. “Osc, I think you’re ready but I need to you to tell me you still want this?”

Oscar nods, pushing back against his hand. “Yes Lando, I want this, please.”

Lando's eyes darken with desire, withdrawing his fingers with a wet pop, leaving Oscar feeling empty and clenching around nothing. He slicks his cock, thick and hard, veins prominent under the flush, head glistening with pre-cum and lube. He lines up, nudging Oscar's entrance, pausing to kiss him deeply, tongues tangling slow.

“Tell me if it's too much. We stop at any time, okay? Promise.”

Oscar wraps his legs around Lando's waist, pulling him closer, heart racing. “I know, I trust you.”

The push in is agonisingly gradual, the blunt head pressing against the rim, then breaching with a pop that makes Oscar's eyes water. It hurts, a sharp sting radiating out, the thickness forcing him open wider than Lando’s fingers ever did, the burn intense despite the prep.

Oscar gasps, body tensing, tears welling up in his eyes, one slipping from the corner of his eye, trailing hot down his cheek. “Fuck. It hurts, Lando,” he chokes out, nails digging into Lando's shoulders, the sensation a mix of fire and fullness that has him trembling.

Lando stills immediately, only the head inside, his face etched with concern, thumb brushing the tear away gently. “Hey, hey, I'm sorry, Osc. We can stop. Breathe, look at me.” He cups Oscar's face, kissing his eyelids, his nose, soft and grounding. “You're doing amazing, but if it's too much...”

Oscar shakes his head, swallowing hard, the pain easing slightly as he forces himself to relax, muscles fluttering around the intrusion. “No, no don't stop. Just... give me a sec. It hurts, but I want this.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes Lando's chest tighten, but he nods, holding still, letting Oscar adjust, whispering, “I've got you. Push back when you're ready, let me in slow.”

Minutes pass like that, Lando's hands roaming soothingly, stroking Oscar's sides, tweaking his nipples lightly to pull focus upward, until the burn dulls to an ache, pleasure flickering at the edges as the head rubs inside.

Oscar exhales shakily, rocking his hips experimentally, taking another inch. “Okay, you can… you can move.”

Lando groans at the tight heat, inching forward carefully, pausing every few thrusts to let Oscar breathe, add lube if needed. Finally, he bottoms out, balls pressed against Oscar's arse, both groaning at the complete connection, the pain now a distant throb overshadowed by the deep fullness pressing right against that spot.

They stay like that a moment, joined, Lando's forehead against Oscar's, breaths syncing, Lando's hand wiping away the remnants of any tears. “You alright? How does it feel now?”

Oscar nods, a small smile breaking through, the hurt transforming into something raw and intimate. “Yeah, I’m good. You… I need you to move.”

Lando starts with shallow thrusts, letting Oscar feel every slide, the way his cock drags along the walls, rubbing the prostate with each pass. Oscar's moans grow louder, hands clawing at Lando's back, nails leaving faint scratches, the initial pain forgotten in the building ecstasy. Each shallow motion builds on the last, the friction igniting sparks that chase away the last remnants of discomfort. Oscar is surprised at how good it feels already.

Lando watches his face like it's the most important thing in the world, adjusting his angle until he find Oscar’s prostate and hits it dead on. Oscar arches off the bed with a cry, cock jerking against his stomach, untouched and already leaking steadily.

“There it is,” Lando breathes, satisfaction lacing his tone as he picks up a gentle rhythm, pulling out halfway before pushing back in, deeper each time, his hips rolling in a smooth, controlled grind.

The room fills with the obscene sounds, wet slaps of skin on skin, the squelch of lube as Lando thrusts, ragged gasps mixing with his grunts. Sweat slicks over their bodies, making every slide easier, hotter. Oscar grips Lando’s back, nails digging in as he feels the flex of muscles under his palms with each thrust, the pace building steadily.

“God, Osc, you feel incredible,” Lando pants, nipping at Oscar’s jaw before capturing his lips in a deeper kiss, tongues tangling messily as his thrusts turn sharper, more insistent. Oscar kisses him back hungrily, tasting salt on his skin, hands roaming down to squeeze his ass, urging him on.

Lando shifts his weight, reaching down to hook one of Oscar’s legs over his shoulder to open up further, and the new angle lets him go even deeper, his cock spearing into him with precision that makes stars burst behind his eyelids.

Oscar cries out, the sensation bordering on too much, pleasure so intense it borders on ache. His own dick throbs, trapped between them, smearing pre-cum across his abs with every grind. Lando notices, his hand wrapping around his length in a firm grip, stroking in time with his hips

“Lando… fuck, yes, right there… don't stop,” his voice breaking on a whine as the coil in his stomach tightens unbearably.

Lando obliges, hips snapping forward, the slap of skin filling the room, sweat slicking their bodies. He angles to hit the prostate harder, drawing cries from Oscar, his own breaths ragged, control fraying. The pace builds, Lando's hand stroking in time with his thrusts, thumb swiping over the slit. It's too much, the dual sensations crashing, Oscar coming first with a choked shout, walls clenching around Lando, cum spilling hot over Lando's fist and Oscar's stomach. The squeeze pulls Lando over, thrusting deep as he spills inside, hot pulses flooding Oscar, the warmth spreading deep, marking him from within.

They ride it out together, Lando collapsing gently, still buried, kissing Oscar's neck, his jaw, his lips, tasting the salt of that earlier tear.

When Lando pulls out, Oscar props himself up on his elbows, gaze dropping between his spread thighs. Lando’s thick cum slowly trickling out of his stretched hole, leaving a trail down his inner thigh.

Lando grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleaning them both tenderly, then pulls Oscar into his arms, spooning him under the covers.  “You alright? I know that hurt at first, I hate that it did.” Lando asks, voice soft, hand tracing lazy patterns on Oscar's chest, concern lingering.

Oscar turns his head, smiling through the haze, body loose and sated, the ache a satisfying reminder. “I'm good, better than good. It was worth it.” He presses back, feeling Lando's nod against his shoulder, the tension fully drained from his body.

“Yeah. Fuck, Osc, that was... you're incredible. Thank you, for trusting me with this.” Lando's voice is thick with emotion, kissing his shoulder.

They lie there, the city's hum distant, until Oscar speaks again, voice firm with conviction. “You're going to win tomorrow, Lando. I know it. You've got this.”

Lando chuckles, holding him tighter. “I love you, so much.”

“Love you too.”

…

As the cars line up on the grid, Oscar realises his hands are trembling. He presses them flat against the bench in front of him, grounding himself. His heartbeat feels synced to the start lights, the five red lights holding all the power as they glow above the grid. When the lights go out, Abu Dhabi ignites. Lando launches cleanly off the line, reaction time near perfect, the papaya car hooking up as the field compresses into turn one.

For a split second it looks tidy. Then chaos. Two cars touch wheels in the mid-pack, another locks up trying to avoid it, one spins across the apex, collecting a third in the process. Carbon fibre explodes across the run-off.

“Yellow flags, yellow flags,” the broadcast commentator shouts. “There’s contact in the midfield! That’s three cars out on the opening lap!”

The safety car is deployed before the leaders even hit the back straight.

Oscar feels his adrenaline spike instead of settling. His whole body is buzzing, jaw tight, shoulders aching from how rigid he’s standing. He keeps replaying worst case scenarios in his head even though Lando’s voice over the radio sounds calm.

“I’m all good guys. No damage that I can feel.”

Max’s Red Bull tucks in just behind under safety car conditions, like a predator lying in wait.

“Championship implications everywhere here,” another commentator says, voice rising with the tension. “Norris cannot afford a mistake. Verstappen is right there.”

When the safety car pulls away and racing resumes, it’s vicious. The restart is clean, but Max is close enough to pounce. He lunges down the inside into turn six, forcing Lando to defend hard. Lando leaves just enough room but manages to hold the outside and gets the better traction on exit.

“He holds him off!” the commentator yells. “What a defensive move from Norris!”

The Red Bull pit wall tries to get clever and they pit Max early.

“Red Bull blink first,” the broadcast notes. “They’re going for the undercut. This could be decisive.”

Oscar watches as Lando’s team stands at the McLaren pit wall, headsets pressed tight against their ears, voices clipped and sharp as they coordinates their response.

Oscar watches the lap deltas flicker. Max is flying on fresh tyres. It feels like watching a slow motion cliff edge. He catches himself whispering, “come on, come on, come on,” under his breath without realising.

“Verstappen’s gaining two tenths a sector right now,” the commentary continues. “This undercut could work if McLaren leave Norris out too long.”

They don’t. Lando pits at exactly the right moment. The stop is a flawless 2.1 seconds and Lando exits the pit lane just ahead of Max’s Red Bull.

“He’s kept track position!” someone shouts in the garage but it’s barely heard over the sound of engines and the crowd.

The middle stint is relentless. Max sits in Lando’s DRS range for lap after lap, applying pressure without mercy. But Lando doesn’t crack. He hits every apex, manages the tyres, leaves nothing vulnerable.

Another incident further back triggers a brief virtual safety car, compressing the field again.

“Everything is tightening up here,” the commentator says. “This championship is balanced on a knife’s edge.”

Zac is pacing now, visibly emotional. Andrea’s hands are clasped together under his chin like he’s in church. Cisca stands with her arms wrapped around herself, whispering something that might be a prayer.

At one point, the broadcast cuts to the McLaren garage and Oscar doesn’t notice at first. It’s only when someone nudges him that he sees himself on the giant monitor above the pit lane, standing shoulder to shoulder with Cisca, Adam just behind them, all of them frozen in identical tension. He looks pale under the lights, eyes locked on the timing tower.

For a strange, detached second, he sees himself the way he assumes the world does. Not as a driver, not as Lando’s teammate to be, but just as someone in the champion’s orbit, part of the picture. He swallows that thought down hard.

When the camera cuts back to Lando’s onboard, Oscar physically leans with the car through a high speed corner without meaning to. His body mirrors every movement. Every lock up makes his breath hitch. Every clean exit feels like oxygen flooding back into his lungs.

With ten laps to go, Max tries again with a late lunge into turn nine. Lando locks up slightly defending, front tyre smoking. Oscar’s breath hitches so sharply it hurts. But Lando catches it just enough to keep the car on track and positions himself perfectly for the switchback.

“That’s brilliant car control from Norris!” the broadcast shouts. “He refuses to give this up!”

Five laps to go. The gap between Lando and Max continues to fluctuate between seven tenths and nine. Every corner feels like it could end everything.

“Verstappen needs something special here,” the commentator says. “Norris is driving the race of his life.”

Oscar’s entire body aches from the tension. His calves are tight, his fingers hurt from gripping the barrier, he realises he hasn’t blinked properly in several seconds when his vision starts to sting.

He glances sideways once at Cisca and sees tears already building in her eyes even before the chequered flag, that nearly undoes him.

When the final lap starts, the camera cuts once again to Lando’s onboard. His hands are steady on the wheel, breathing controlled. He takes turn five cleanly and nails the braking into the chicane.

Lando and Max fly through the final sector. The yacht lights blur in the background as Lando exits the last corner with clinical precision. Oscar’s heart slams so violently he thinks he might black out. For a split second, he’s not thinking about championships or history or cameras, he’s just thinking ‘please let him have this.’

When Lando crosses the line, the chequered flag waving frantically, Oscar doesn’t hear the roar at first. It’s like sound disappears and then crashes back in all at once. His knees feel weak, he laughs, but it comes out half sob.

“He’s done it!” the lead commentator screams. “Lando Norris wins the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and he is world champion for the fifth time!”

The McLaren garage implodes. Another camera cut catches the family again, Cisca crying openly now, Adam hugging her tightly, Oscar standing right beside them, eyes bright and stunned. Oscar feels something inside him explode.

On the radio, Lando’s voice cracks. “Oh my god! We did it! We actually did it! I can’t believe it!” The relief in his voice is overwhelming.

He pulls into parc fermé and climbs on top of the car like gravity doesn’t quite apply to him anymore. Helmet off, eyes glassy with adrenaline and disbelief. He looks toward the garage, sees his family, sees Oscar, and before anyone can comprehend, Lando has jumped down and ran over to the barrier where they’re all waiting. Lando’s half laughing, half sobbing as his family swarms him. Adam pulls him into a crushing hug, Flo and Cisca Jr squeezes him from the side, Cisca cups his face, crying openly now.

Oscar waits just behind them, he doesn’t want to intrude on that first moment. But Lando’s eyes search again and land on him. He drops down from the barrier and steps straight into Oscar’s space, pulling him in without hesitation. Lando holds him tightly like he’s anchoring himself.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Lando says against his shoulder, voice wrecked.

Oscar shakes his head, smiling through the tears burning his eyes. “You still would’ve won.”

“Not like this,” Lando murmurs. “Not without you here.”

He pulls back just enough, hands still gripping Oscar’s waist, and presses their foreheads together for the briefest, hidden second, shielded by the bodies around them. And as the fireworks begin to crackle above the circuit, reflecting in Lando’s shining eyes, Oscar knows he will remember this moment for the rest of his life.

Half an hour later Oscar stands at the foot of the podium with Lando’s family, the noise almost physical in its force. The fireworks have started properly now, gold bursting against the black Abu Dhabi sky. Confetti cannons fire in papaya and silver. The crowd chants Lando’s name over and over until it becomes something rhythmic, something unreal.

Cisca has both hands clasped at her chest, eyes wet again. Adam stands tall beside her, pride radiating off him. Oliver and Cisca Jr stand on one side of Oscar whilst Flo leans against Oscar’s other shoulder.

Up above them, Lando looks incandescent, radiant, golden under the floodlights.

His race suit is still streaked with sweat, hair a mess from where he’s dragged his hands through it a hundred times. The Abu Dhabi first place trophy is placed into his hands and for a second he just stares at it, almost reverently.

The commentator’s voice booms through the speakers. “Lando Norris, world champion.”

He lifts the trophy high, the sound that follows is deafening. Oscar feels it in his chest. When the champagne bottles are handed up, Lando’s grin turns feral in the way it always does. He shakes the bottle hard, barely waiting for the signal. He slams the champagne bottle on the top set with a triumphant shout and immediately drenches the Max and Charles on the podium, laughing as they retaliate. The spray arcs across the stage, catching the lights like glittering rain.

Then he turns and sprays the crowd below. Cisca squeals as droplets reach them. Flo throws her hands up. Adam pretends to shield himself and fails miserably. Oscar just stands there, looking up. He can hear Lando’s laugh even over the music and the roar of thousands of people. He laughs until his voice cracks, until it turns hoarse and broken. He laughs until his shoulders shake and the champagne bottle trembles in his grip. For a moment, it’s like none of the pressure ever existed.

Cameras flash relentlessly. Photographers crowd the base of the podium. Team members shout congratulations in a dozen languages. And then, just once, through all of it, Lando’s eyes find Oscar’s. It’s brief, barely a flicker but Oscar can tell his grin falters for a fraction of a second. There’s something there beneath it all, something raw. Like he’s standing on top of the world and barely holding himself together. Then he looks away again, smile snapping back into place as another photographer shouts his name. Oscar swallows.

The podium ceremony ends in a blur of trophies and handshakes and national anthems. By the time Lando disappears into the media pen, the world has already begun devouring him. Oscar makes his way back to McLaren hospitality with the Norris’, the corridors packed with team members and VIP guests. The air smells like champagne and adrenaline.

Inside, it’s chaos. Championship banners are being unfurled. Staff are hugging each other. Someone is crying into a headset. Phones are held up everywhere, filming, livestreaming, documenting history.

Lando appears in the doorway between interviews, still glowing, still smiling. But closer now, Oscar can see the cracks. The way Lando’s chest rises a little too fast, the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his jaw tightens between forced grins.

He spots Oscar instantly and is across the room in three long strides. He just grabs Oscar’s hand, his fingers lace through Oscar’s and squeeze, almost painfully, like he’s anchoring himself to something solid, like he’s afraid he might float away if he doesn’t. Oscar squeezes back just as firmly. For a second, Lando’s smile softens, the performance drops. His thumb brushes over Oscar’s knuckles, grounding.

Then someone calls his name because there’s another interview, another camera, another microphone to be pushed into his face.

And he’s already moving, slipping seamlessly back into the role of world champion as Oscar stands there with the ghost of his grip still tingling in his hand. No words pass between them but Oscar understands. The night is only just beginning.

…

The celebrations don’t pause, they mutate. The champagne hasn’t even dried in Lando’s hair when the night shifts from the circuit to the city. McLaren moves like a travelling circus of victory, black cars lined up outside Yas Marina, engines humming, security ushering them through back entrances and private elevators.

The club they end up in is absurd. High ceilings washed in violet and electric blue. LED panels pulsing with abstract patterns. Bass that vibrates through bone and blood. VIP booths draped in velvet and gold. It’s the kind of place that exists purely for excess. McLaren has booked the entire venue.

The Norris family arrives first, still glowing from the podium. Cisca is laughing more freely now, champagne replacing nerves. Adam is shaking hands with half the grid. Flo and Cisca Jr are already on the dance floor, dragging engineers with them.

Drivers drift in from every direction. Charles with Arthur in tow, George in a crisp shirt, tie already loosened, Max Verstappen giving Lando a firm clap on the shoulder and a muttered, sincere congratulations. Daniel louder than everyone else combined.

And at the centre of it all is Lando. There’s a gold chain around his neck someone had insisted he wear, catching the light like a crown. His shirt is half unbuttoned now, hair unruly, eyes bright and glassy with adrenaline and alcohol. He laughs easily, throws his head back, accepts congratulations with an arm around shoulders and quick, affectionate squeezes.

Oscar stands near the edge of the dance floor for a moment, just taking it in. This is what it looks like when someone reaches the summit of their childhood dream.

The DJ has them deep into something loud and relentless, bass thudding through the floor like a second heartbeat. Lights sweep across the crowd in neon flashes, catching the glitter of champagne still clinging to Lando’s collarbones.

Someone presses a tray of shots into Lando’s hands.

“World champ has to drink,” Daniel shouts over the music, already grinning.

Max Verstappen raises his glass with a smirk. “To finally shutting us up.”

Lando laughs, that bright, reckless sound that makes everyone else laugh too. He knocks his shot back in one smooth motion, barely flinching at the burn. Another glass is pushed into his hand almost immediately. He takes that one too.

Oscar watches from a few feet away, half amused, half wary. Lando’s laugh is a touch louder than usual. His movements a little looser. When he slings an arm around Charles’ shoulders, it lingers just a fraction too long, like he needs the contact.

“You’re unstoppable tonight,” George teases.

Lando grins. “Always have been.” It’s cocky, but playful, the crowd eats it up.

Oscar ends up near the bar for a moment, where he finds Logan is leaning against the counter, nursing something fizzy and harmless.

“You surviving?” Logan asks, smiling in that easy, open way he has.

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “Barely. I think my ears are going to ring for a week.”

Logan laughs with him, leaning closer so they can actually hear each other. “He looks happy,” Logan says, glancing toward the centre of the dance floor where Lando is currently being hoisted onto someone’s shoulders for reasons no one can explain.

“Yeah,” Oscar says quickly. But as he says it, he watches Lando’s expression shift between flashes of brilliance and something tighter underneath. The smile never quite drops, but sometimes it looks stretched thin, his eyes glassy in a way that isn’t just joy.

Another round of shots appears. Lando takes one, then another.

“Pace yourself,” Oscar mouths across the room when Lando catches his eyes. Lando just winks.

A few minutes later, Oscar halfway through a conversation with Logan about karting tracks and mutual friends from their junior series days, he feels hands slide around his waist from behind.

“You’re ignoring me,” Lando murmurs into his ear, words slightly blurred but playful.

Oscar turns, startled. “I am not.”

“You are,” Lando insists, grin lazy and bright. “You’re over here making new best friends.”

Logan lifts his hands in mock surrender. “I can disappear if you want.”

Lando laughs. “No, no. You can stay, he’s allowed friends.” But his fingers tighten just a little at Oscar’s hips. “But I am stealing him now to dance with me,” Lando says, already tugging him away.

Oscar barely has time to throw Logan an apologetic look before he’s pulled into the crush of bodies near the DJ booth. Lando moves like he always does, with a lot of confidence. Hands sliding to Oscar’s waist, then up to his shoulders.

“You’re terrible at this,” Lando tells him, breath warm and sweet with alcohol.

“I know,” Oscar replies, trying not to trip over his own feet.

Lando laughs again and presses closer, guiding him with gentle pressure. Their bodies move in sync more from instinct rather than rhythm. From this close, Oscar can see the flush in Lando’s cheeks, the way his pupils are blown wide, the sheen of sweat at his temples.

“You okay?” Oscar asks quietly.

“Perfect,” Lando says immediately. He leans in and kisses the corner of Oscar’s mouth, quick and careless, the crowd whistles.

When he pulls back, there’s something flickering in his eyes, bright, but fragile, like he’s riding the high too hard.

Another friend claps him on the back. Someone else shoves another drink into his hand which he doesn’t refuse.

As the night stretches on, the signs are small. Lando talks faster, laughs louder, forgets the end of a sentence halfway through and just shakes his head, smiling like it doesn’t matter. Once, Oscar notices him staring into space for a second too long before snapping back into the moment when someone calls his name. It’s subtle, easy to miss if you don’t know what to look for.

And then the DJ cuts the music. “Ladies and gentlemen… make some noise for your new World Champion, Lando Norris!”

The crowd erupts, people turn, phones rise, but there’s no Lando. There’s a beat of confusion. Laughter at first, assuming he’s just been swallowed by the mass of bodies.

“Where is he?” someone shouts playfully.

Oscar’s smile falters. He scans the dance floor, the VIP section, the bar. There’s no Lando.

Cisca looks around too, frown forming. Adam pulls his phone from his pocket immediately.

“Has anyone seen him?” Flo asks, already moving.

Max F is suddenly serious, eyes sweeping the room.

Oscar gets his phone out and calls as well. It rings with no answer. He tries again, straight to voicemail. Oscar’s chest tightens with panic, something telling him that this isn’t right.

“He was just here,” someone says.

Oscar pushes through the crowd, ignoring the way people bump into him. He goes out into the side hallway, past security who barely glance at him. The bass dulls the further he moves away. He checks the bathrooms but they’re empty. Then he spots a back exit door slightly ajar, cool desert air slipping through. He steps outside. It’s quiet back here, the distant thud of music muffled by thick walls. The smell of heat and asphalt and spilled alcohol.

Lando is sitting on a low concrete step behind the venue. Head in his hands, shoulders hunched and completely out of it. Oscar freezes for a second. The image doesn’t match the one from only moments ago, the golden, glowing champion.

He approaches slowly. “Lando?”

No response at first. Then Lando lifts his head. His eyes are red, not just from alcohol, from something else. “Osc,” he says, voice slurred but recognisable.

Oscar crouches in front of him properly now, knees brushing Lando’s shoes. Up close, the signs are clearer. Lando’s pupils are blown wide, swallowing most of the blue in his eyes. His skin is flushed deep at the cheeks and nose. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples that isn’t just from dancing. When he tries to focus on Oscar’s face, his gaze drifts slightly before snapping back.

“You disappeared,” he says softly. “They’re looking for you.”

Lando lets out a breathy, crooked laugh. “S’my party. Can be wherever I want.” The words tangle slightly. He blinks hard, like he’s trying to steady the room.

“Lando…”

“I just… it got loud,” he cuts in, pressing his palms to his temples again. “Too loud. Everyone’s touching me, hugging me, screaming my name. I can’t…” He stops, swallows. “I can’t hear myself.”

Oscar sits beside him instead of in front of him, shoulder brushing against his. “You could’ve told me.”

Lando snorts. “I tried,” he says, then frowns like he’s not sure if that’s true. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t try. I don’t want you to know.” Lando shrugs, losing his balance slightly, Oscar reaching out to steady him. “I don’t know, I thought I was fine. I thought once I won that everything would be fine again.”

Oscar’s heart sinks.

Lando leans back against the wall, staring up at the night sky like it might offer answers. “I should be happy,” he says. “Right?” His voice dips again, softer, heavier. “You know…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You’re too good to me.”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“You are,” Lando insists, turning to look at him properly now. His expression vulnerable in a way he rarely allows. “You’ve been so patient. Through all of it, the fights, me being… me.”

Oscar feels his throat close up. “Lan…”

“I hate what this championship fight has done to me,” Lando continues, voice cracking at the edges. “To us.”

“Lando, you’re drunk,” Oscar says gently. “And overwhelmed.”

Lando shakes his head, slow and stubborn. “I’ve been horrible,” Lando says quietly. “Busy, snappy, not listening. Making you feel like an afterthought.” His hands tremble slightly in his lap. “I wouldn’t blame you if you decided you didn’t like me right now, I don’t even like me right now.”

Oscar’s chest aches. “Lando, please don’t say that.”

“No. It’s not just that.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I hate my brain. Or my brain hates me. I don’t know which one’s winning.” He gives a hollow little laugh that breaks halfway through. “It doesn’t shut up,” he continues, words sliding together at the edges. “Even when I win. Even when I’m s’posed to be happy. It’s like… it’s like it moves the goalposts. It’s already asking what’s next. What if I can’t do it again? What if this was it? What if I mess it all up?” His breathing starts to quicken slightly.

Oscar’s vision blurs, his throat burns. He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the tears well up.

“And I was horrible,” Lando continues flatly. “I hate the person I am right now. I don’t recognise him and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Oscar reaches for Lando’s shaking hands, wrapping his fingers around his wrist gently to still them. “Lando,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

It takes effort, but Lando does. There’s something raw in his eyes, something like shame.

“I keep thinking,” Lando mutters, “what if this is who I am when things matter? What if I only know how to care about one thing at a time and I picked the wrong one?”

Oscar’s stomach drops. “You didn’t pick wrong.”

“I nearly lost you,” Lando says, the words slurred but heavy. “You were right there and I was too busy chasing this stupid thing that hasn’t even made me happy.” He gestures vaguely toward the club, toward the idea of the trophy, the title, the noise. “I hate that I needed it so much,” he whispers. “I hate that I still need it.” His voice cracks properly this time.

“You’re allowed to want it,” Oscar says. “You’ve wanted it since you were a kid.”

“Yeah,” Lando says softly. “And I used being a kid against you.” The guilt in his expression is unbearable.

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping. Oscar moves closer, wrapping an arm around Lando’s shoulders. Lando doesn’t resist. He leans into him almost instantly.

“I hate the person I am right now,” he whispers into Oscar’s shirt. “And I don’t know how to fix him.”

Oscar presses his cheek into Lando’s hair, breathing him in. Sweat, champagne, expensive cologne, and something uniquely him. “You don’t have to fix yourself tonight,” Oscar murmurs. “You don’t have to be perfect tonight.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath. “I’m scared,” he admits, barely audible.

“Of what?”

“That if I stop chasing something,” he says slowly, “there won’t be anything left of me.”

Oscar’s heart cracks open. “There’s you,” he says quietly. “There’s still you.”

Lando goes quiet at that. The music keeps pounding behind them. The celebration rages on. The world is convinced this is the happiest night of Lando’s life. But out here, under a strip of fluorescent light and a sky that doesn’t care about trophies, Lando’s grip tightens weakly in Oscar’s shirt. And Oscar realises the championship didn’t silence the noise, it just made it louder.

Chapter Text

The week after Abu Dhabi doesn’t slow down, if anything, it accelerates. There are factory visits where Lando is paraded through corridors lined with cheering staff. There are endless sponsor shoots, magazine covers, sit down interviews dissecting every corner of that final lap. There’s pre-season testing briefings that begin before sunrise and stretch long past dinner. There are conference calls with people Oscar doesn’t recognise and flights that blur into each other.

They exist in the same spaces constantly and yet somehow are never alone. Oscar keeps telling himself he’ll find the right moment to bring it up. To talk about what Lando had said that night, about the way his voice cracked when he admitted he didn’t like himself.

But there’s always someone around and Lando is performing, perfectly. He laughs on cue, he answers questions with polished charm, deflects anything personal with easy humour. When a journalist asks how he’s handling the pressure of being a five time World Champion, he grins and says, “Pressure’s a privilege,” like he believes it.

Oscar just watches from the sidelines, feeling helpless while studying the micro-movements, the way Lando’s fingers flex against the stem of the glass, the split second too long between a question and an answer, the way his smile drops the moment he thinks the camera has cut before it snaps back into place.

The FIA Prize Giving ceremony arrives almost too quickly. It feels symbolic almost, like the punctuation mark on the season.

Oscar drives to Lando’s UK apartment in the late afternoon, palms slightly damp against the steering wheel. He’s not attending the event as it’s invite only but Lando had asked him to come over whilst he was getting ready and finished with a few last minute media tasks.

Max Fewtrell is already inside when he arrives, leaning back against the kitchen counter with the kind of casualness that only comes from years of knowing someone as deeply as Max knows Lando. There’s a bottle of something expensive open on the bench.

“You’re late,” Max says without heat.

“Traffic,” Oscar replies, toeing off his shoes.

Lando appears from down the hall. He looks sharp, tailored, controlled. And pale. The tux fits him perfectly, shoulders structured, waist clean and narrow. His hair is styled but slightly undone, like he’s run his hands through it too many times already. His eyes are rimmed red.

“Did you even sleep?” Oscar asks quietly when they’re close enough not to be overheard.

Lando’s mouth twitches into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t start, please.” There’s a flicker of defensiveness there.

Oscar softens immediately. “I’m not starting.”

Lando steps closer and kisses him. It’s soft at first, then firmer. A hand sliding to Oscar’s waist. A breath shared between them. It feels like an apology, like avoidance.

“I’m fine,” Lando murmurs again, almost reflexively.

Oscar nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I am glad you made it,” Lando had said, giving Oscar the first genuine smile he’s seen in a while.

Oscar smiles back, kissing him softly, fingers brushing over the lapel of his jacket. “You look ridiculous,” Oscar teased gently.

“In a good way?” Lando asks.

“In an annoyingly handsome way.”

Lando laughs at that, quick and bright. “I’ve just got to finish getting ready,” he says. “Bowtie’s being a nightmare. Two minutes.”

Two minutes turns into ten, then fifteen.

Oscar sits on the edge of the sofa in the living room, hands clasped loosely between his knees. The apartment is immaculate, every surface clean, everything in its place. It feels less like a home and more like somewhere people visit.

Max appears from the kitchen with two glasses. “Thought you might need this,” he says, offering one.

Oscar accepts it gratefully. The glass is cool in his hand. “Thanks.”

Max drops into the armchair opposite him, watching him over the rim of his own drink. “You alright?” he asks casually.

Oscar nods automatically. “Yeah.”

Max hums like he doesn’t quite believe that but lets it slide.

Upstairs, there’s the faint sound of a drawer closing, then silence again. Oscar glances toward the staircase. “He’s been up there a while,” he says, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Max follows his gaze. “Yeah.”

Another beat of quiet. Oscar takes a sip of his drink, barely tasting it. His stomach has been tight all afternoon.

Max sighs softly. “You should go up,” he says.

Oscar looks at him.

“He won’t come down any quicker if he’s spiralling up there alone.”

“He’ll pretend he’s fine if I ask,” Oscar murmurs.

“He’ll pretend he’s fine either way,” Max replies bluntly. “At least if you’re there, he doesn’t have to pretend as hard.”

Oscar stares down at his glass, the reflection of the room warping in the surface. “What if he doesn’t want me to see it?” he asks quietly.

“He might not.” Max stands, clapping a hand lightly against Oscar’s shoulder as he passes. “But you should go,” he says. “Before he convinces himself he can handle it alone.”

Oscar nods slowly. He sets his glass down carefully on the table, hands steady even though his chest feels anything but. He moves toward the staircase, each step creaking faintly beneath his weight. He reaches the top and hesitates outside Lando’s bedroom door. Oscar lifts his hand and knocks gently.

“Lando?” he calls softly.

There’s a pause, then Lando’s voice from inside, lighter than it should be. “Yeah?”

Oscar pushes the door open and finds Lando standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, fighting with his bowtie and losing.

“Hold still,” Oscar says as he moves into the room.

Lando huffs a breath but obeys.

Oscar’s fingers are steady as he re-ties the knot, straightening the collar with practiced ease. He smooths the fabric of the shirt, brushes an invisible speck of lint from the jacket. “You clean up well,” he murmurs, softer this time.

Lando’s eyes flick up to meet his in the mirror, there’s something tired in them. “Trying to impress someone,” Lando says.

Oscar’s mouth curves faintly. “You already did.”

Lando watches him in the reflection for a beat too long. His jaw flexes slightly, like he’s holding something back. “I don’t feel very impressive,” he says under his breath, almost too quiet.

Oscar stills. “What?”

Lando shakes his head quickly, forcing a smirk. “Nothing, just ignore me.”

The moment passes too fast to grab, the front opening and closing again and footsteps sounding on the stairs, someone yelling that they need Lando for a final media thing, meaning that once again Oscar has missed the moment to bring things up with Lando.

Lando exhales sharply, like he’s bracing himself. He adjusts his cufflinks again even though they’re perfectly aligned, straightens his jacket, rolls his shoulders. “Right,” he says lightly. “Back to it.”

Oscar steps in front of him, smoothing the lapel gently. “Go be a World Champion,” he says softly.

Lando’s composure slips for a fraction of a second. He leans in and kisses Oscar again. His hand slides up to Oscar’s jaw, thumb resting just beneath his ear. The kiss deepens slightly, like he’s trying to memorise the feeling.

“I love you,” Oscar whispers.

Lando presses his forehead against his. “Love you too.” His voice is steady but his grip tightens briefly in Oscar’s hoodie.

Oscar follow Lando downstairs to the lounge room that’s been turned into a makeshift filming space. Oscar finds Max leaning against the kitchen bench and goes to join him.

The ring light is on, casting a bright, artificial glow over Lando’s face. The camera is set up on a tripod, angled perfectly. A small mic is being clipped neatly to his collar. Behind him, the background is curated, clean and intentional. A trophy just slightly in frame but not too obvious. A McLaren cap resting on the shelf.

“Alright,” Lando says to the camera, voice light, professional. “Last video of the season before the awards. Thought we’d do a little recap, answer some of your questions, all that good stuff.” He smiles.

If Oscar didn’t know him, he’d buy it. He watches the way Lando’s fingers tap restlessly against his thigh where he thinks the camera isn’t catching it. The way his jaw tightens for half a second before he launches into a joke about Abu Dhabi. The way he swallows hard before saying how proud he is of the team.

Someone in the comments, live feed scrolling beside the lens, writes, ‘You look tired, champ.’

Lando laughs. “Yeah, bit of a week,” he replies easily. “But worth it.”

He adjusts slightly in his chair, rolling his shoulders back like they’re stiff. Oscar notices the faint shadows under his eyes even beneath the studio lighting.

A fan question pops up. ‘How are you actually feeling now it’s all over?’

Lando’s smile pauses a fraction too long before returning. “Honestly?” he says, leaning back casually. “I’m good. Really good. It’s been a crazy year, but I’m grateful. That’s the main thing, grateful.”

The word sits there, Oscar can hear the strain underneath it.

Lando keeps going. Talking about favourite moments, thanking fans, teasing next season. He’s articulate, charming, engaging. The comments flood with hearts and fire emojis and GOAT declarations.

He wraps it up with a grin. “Alright, that’s me done. See you all at the awards. Try not to miss me too much.” He blows a kiss to the camera.

The camera and light click off. His shoulders slump, his hands come up to rub over his face, pressing hard at his eyes like he’s trying to push something back inside.

Oscar steps in then, gently. “You smashed it,” he says softly.

Lando startles slightly, then forces a half-smile. “Did I?” he replies.

“Yeah.”

Lando nods, busying himself with unclipping the mic, coiling the wire carefully. “Just one more thing to tick off,” he mutters.

Oscar watches the way his fingers fumble slightly with the clasp. “Do you need a minute before the awards stuff?” Oscar asks.

Lando shakes his head immediately. “No. Better to just keep moving.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes Oscar’s stomach twist, like stopping would mean thinking and like thinking would mean feeling.

Lando stands, smoothing his shirt down, checking his reflection in the blank camera lens. “Time to go collect another shiny thing.” He grabs his coat, heading toward the door, then pauses and glances back with that familiar crooked grin. “You know,” he says casually, “the best prize I could get tonight would be a naked Oscar waiting for me when I get back.”

Max makes a choking noise from somewhere behind them. “For the love of God.”

Oscar feels his face heat but manages a dry, “Win your award first.”

Lando laughs and follows his team out. The front door closes behind them with a muted thud. For a moment, the house feels hollow. The noise of the team outside fades quickly, replaced by an almost oppressive quiet.

Oscar stands there, staring at the door Lando just walked through. “Max,” Oscar says quietly.

Max looks up from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, bottle still loose in his hand. “Yeah?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Max straightens immediately.

They move into the living room, away from the windows, away from the faint flashing lights outside. Oscar sits on the edge of the sofa but doesn’t relax into it. His hands are clasped too tight in his lap.

For a second, he struggles to start, then it spills out. “Do you remember,” he says slowly, “when you told me to tell you if I’m worried about Lando?”

Max’s expression shifts. “Yeah,” he says carefully. “I remember.”

“I’m worried.” The words land heavier than Oscar expects.

Max sets the bottle down. “What happened?”

Oscar exhales shakily. “After Abu Dhabi,” he says. “At the club when he disappeared, I found him outside. He was drunk, properly drunk. And he said…” His throat tightens slightly. “He said he doesn’t like himself right now. That he hates his brain. That he hates the person he is.”

Max closes his eyes briefly, like he’s absorbing it. “He said that?” he asks quietly.

Oscar nods. “He looked… not like himself. Not just drunk, small. Like he didn’t know how to sit with everything.”

Max drags a hand over his jaw. “I’ve been worried too,” he admits.

Oscar looks up sharply.

“The lack of sleep,” Max continues. “He’s running on fumes. Skipping meals because he ‘forgets’. Snapping at people, then acting like it didn’t happen. Getting defensive over tiny things.”

Oscar thinks of the brittle smile earlier. The red rims around Lando’s eyes.

“The last time I saw him like this,” Max says carefully, “was the year after he won his first WDC.”

Oscar swallows. “What happened then?”

“He didn’t know how to switch off,” Max replies. “He won it and instead of feeling secure, he spiralled into thinking he had to prove it all over again immediately. Trained harder, worked longer, shut people out, got stuck in his own head.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. “He told me he hates who he became during the fight,” Oscar says quietly. “Thinks he nearly ruined us getting there.”

Max nods slowly. “He probably believes that.”

Oscar rubs his palms together, restless. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I don’t want to push him. I don’t want to make it worse. But I can’t just stand there and watch him unravel either.”

Max sits opposite him, elbows on his knees. “You can’t fix his brain for him,” he says gently. “As much as you might want to.”

Oscar laughs weakly. “I do want to.”

“I know. I do too.”

The room falls quiet for a moment.

“So what do I do?” Oscar asks again, softer now.

“All we can do,” Max says, choosing his words carefully, “is be there for him. Keep supporting him. Keep reminding him he’s more than the result, more than the trophy, even when he doesn’t believe it.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. “And if it gets worse?” he asks.

“Then we nudge him toward help,” Max replies. “Proper help. But it has to be his choice.”

Oscar nods slowly. “I just don’t want him to go back to that place,” he admits. “He looked… scared of himself.”

Max’s jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the bit that worries me.”

They sit in the quiet together, the weight of it hanging between them. It feels like they’re preparing for a different kind of fight altogether.

…

The apartment is dark when Lando gets back. He stands in the entryway for a second too long. His jacket is slung over one shoulder, bowtie half undone, hair mussed like he’s run his fingers through it one too many time. He looks like a cut-out of himself, like something polished and presentable that’s been placed in the wrong room.

Oscar is already standing up from the couch. “You’re back,” he says softly.

Lando smiles. “Yeah,” he answers, voice slightly hoarse. “World Champion duties complete.” He drops the jacket onto the chair, it slides off and pools on the floor.

“You look exhausted,” Oscar murmurs.

“Yeah. I’m surprised you’re still up,” Lando says.

“Wanted to wait for you,” Oscar replies softly. “How was it?”

“Loud,” Lando laughs, it’s a little breathless. “So loud. So many cameras. So many people wanting to talk. I swear I’ve shaken about a thousand hands tonight.” He drops his keys on the table, they clatter too loudly in the quiet room.

“You looked good,” Oscar says. “I watched some of it.”

Lando grins at that, stepping closer. “Yeah?” he asks, already reaching for him.

The kiss comes fast. It’s not gentle. It’s urgent and hungry and almost desperate. His hands grip at Oscar’s hips like he needs something solid, something real. He kisses him again, deeper this time, breath uneven.

“Osc,” he murmurs against his mouth. “You have no idea how much I needed to get out of there.”

Oscar can feel the frantic energy vibrating under Lando’s skin.

Lando’s hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, fingers cool against his skin. He kisses down Oscar’s jaw, his neck, breath hot and uneven.

“Lando,” Oscar says softly, trying to slow him. “Hey.”

Lando doesn’t stop. “I just…” His words tumble over each other. “I just need to feel normal for a second. Just us. No cameras. No…”

Oscar catches his wrists. “Lando.”

Lando freezes, he looks up and for a second Oscar sees it clearly, the full blown panic in his eyes.

“You don’t want this Lando,” Oscar says quietly. “Not like this.”

Lando blinks like he’s trying to refocus. “I’m fine,” he says automatically.

Oscar shakes his head. “No you’re not.”

The word hangs heavy between them.

Lando’s mouth trembles. It’s subtle at first, barely there, but Oscar sees it. The tight control starting to fracture. He takes a step back, then another. His back hits the couch and he lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his lungs all night.

“I can’t switch it off,” he whispers.

Oscar moves closer slowly. “Switch what off?”

“My head,” Lando chokes. “It won’t shut up.” He drags both hands down his face, smearing the careful composure he’s worn for hours. “It’s still going. Every interview. Every word. Every moment I screwed up this season. Every time I nearly threw it away.” His breathing turns shallow. “It just keeps going.”

Lando’s shoulders start to shake. Oscar’s chest tightens, he moves to sit beside Lando, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him in without hesitation.

Lando collapses into him and folds himself into Oscar’s embrace. His forehead presses into Oscar’s collarbone and the first sob tears out of him like it’s been clawing at his ribs for days.

“I don’t… I can’t… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Lando gasps.

Oscar’s arms tighten instinctively around him. “You’re okay Lando.”

“I don’t…” Lando tries, voice cracking. The sobs get heavier.

Oscar guides them down onto the couch. Lando barely resists, barely registers the movement. He ends up half sprawled over Oscar, cheek pressed to his chest, hands gripping his hoodie like he’s drowning.

“I hate this,” Lando whispers into the fabric.

Oscar swallows against the sting in his own eyes. “You’re still Lando,” he murmurs, fingers sliding into Lando’s hair. “The one who believed I could make it to F1 when I couldn’t. The one who helped me train so I could be faster and smarter in the car. You’re still the Lando I fell in love with.”

Oscar feels the tremor in his body, the exhaustion beneath the adrenaline.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” Oscar whispers. “You don’t have to perform and pretend you’re okay, especially not around me.”

Lando lets out a broken laugh that dissolves into another sob. “I don’t know how not to.”

The admission is small. Oscar’s heart physically aches at the sound of it. He shifts slightly, pulling Lando fully onto him so he’s cradled against his chest. One hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades. The other cups the back of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar repeats quietly. “I’ve got you.”

Lando cries until he’s empty. The sobs turning into small, shuddering breaths. His fingers loosen their desperate grip. His weight settles heavier and heavier against Oscar.

“I’m sorry,” Lando mumbles faintly.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. For… everything.”

Oscar presses a kiss into his hair. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

They stay like that for a long time. Lando’s breathing gradually evens out, the exhaustion winning and sleep taking over. His cheek is still damp where it rests against Oscar’s chest. Oscar doesn’t move. He listens to Lando’s breathing shift from uneven to steady. He stares at the ceiling and lets the weight of it all settle. Lando shifts slightly in his sleep, face pressing closer to Oscar’s throat, like even unconscious he’s seeking warmth. Oscar tightens his hold automatically.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into the dim room.

And even though Lando can’t hear him, even though the future feels uncertain and fragile and far too big, Oscar means it with everything in him.

…

The days after the FIA awards stretch strangely for Oscar. His calendar is quiet bar a few simulator sessions and a handful of media obligations for next season.

Lando’s schedule is the opposite. Lando had flown back to Monaco early the morning after the FIA awards, not even six hours after his emotional breakdown in Oscar’s arm. Oscar stays behind in London, his own flight booked for a week later. The plan is simple, Lando settles things in Monaco, Oscar joins him, they spend a handful of quiet days together before Oscar flies home to Australia for Christmas.

Simple in theory. In reality, the distance feels immediate. They FaceTime that first night, Lando is sitting at his kitchen island in Monaco, hair damp from a shower, hoodie pulled over his head. The city lights glow faintly through the windows behind him.

“You get back alright?” Oscar asks.

“Yeah, fine,” Lando says, nodding once. “Flight was easy.”

Oscar hesitates, then tries anyway. “Lando… about last night, and the other night… at the club. You… you said some stuff and I’m hoping we can talk about it?”

Lando’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Yeah.”

“You said you hated yourself.”

There’s a flicker in Lando’s eyes, a flash of something shuttered. “I was drunk,” he says lightly. “World Champion hangover, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t real Lando.”

Lando exhales through his nose, rubs a hand down his face. “Oscar…”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay.”

“I don’t think you are and that’s okay Lando.”

A beat. Lando’s gaze drops to the counter. When he looks back up, the softness is there, but it’s guarded. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s been a long year.”

Oscar nods slowly. “I’ll be there soon,” he says instead. “We can just… switch off. Not worry about anything else.”

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly. “That’ll be good.”

Oscar studies him. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it now?”

Lando’s expression shifts. He smiles, but it’s the smile Oscar has learned to recognise over the past few weeks. The one that looks performed. “Osc,” he says gently, cutting him off. “Please.”

The word lands heavier than the others. Oscar swallows. “Okay.”

Lando stands, grabbing his phone. “I’ve got an early gym session tomorrow,” he says. “Should probably sleep.”

Oscar nods again, even though it’s barely nine pm. “Right.”

Lando steps closer to the camera, his voice softens. “I love you.”

Oscar’s heart twists. “I love you too,” he replies.

Lando blows him a small kiss, then the screen goes dark.

Oscar sits there for a few seconds longer, staring at his own reflection in the blank display. The call had felt… incomplete, like a door closing just before he could step through it.

Now every time Oscar opens social media, Lando’s there, videoing in on a morning show, in a glossy photoshoot, a still of him laughing at a sponsor dinner, standing in front of a step-and-repeat wall with the trophy balanced on his hip. He is everywhere.

But when Oscar calls, he’s nowhere.

The first few days, Lando answers. “Hey,” he says, voice faintly echoing like he’s in a hallway somewhere.

“You alive?” Oscar teases gently.

“Barely,” Lando replies, but the laugh is thin. “Crazy day. Three interviews back to back, then dinner. I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Okay.”

Later never comes. The next day, the replies are shorter. “Sorry, crazy,” “In a meeting,” “Can’t talk,” “Love you.”

Oscar tries not to let it burrow under his skin, tells himself that this is what happens when you win a championship. That the world wants a piece of you and you don’t get to say no.

He scrolls past another photo of Lando at a charity gala, tux immaculate, smile wide. He zooms in on Lando’s eyes, they look tired.

The third time Lando cancels a call with a quick, distracted, “Sorry, later, promise,” Oscar stares at his phone long after the screen goes dark.

He opens his contacts. Max Fewtrell answers on the second ring.

“Hey.”

There’s background noise on his end, something metallic clattering faintly, like he’s in a kitchen.

Oscar doesn’t bother with small talk. “He’s not okay,” Oscar says immediately.

A beat of silence. “Talk to me,” Max replies.

Oscar paces his living room as he explains. “I tried to talk to him, about the club, about what he said. He just… shut it down. He shuts it down every time I try to bring it up.” Oscar says, frustration creeping into his voice. “I know he’s busy but this isn’t just busy, it feels like he’s… fading.”

There’s a soft sigh from the other end. “How’s he actually sounding?” Max asks.

“Flat,” Oscar says immediately. “Or wired. There’s no in-between. It’s like he’s either completely switched on or completely empty.”

Max is quiet for a second.

Oscar closes his eyes. “I don’t want to wait until it gets worse,” he says.

There’s another pause. “Neither do I,” Max replies.

“I’m supposed to be flying to Monaco in a couple of days,” Oscar starts. “Can you… can you come with me?”

There’s no hesitation. “Yeah.”

Relief washes through Oscar so fast it almost makes him dizzy. “Okay.”

“We won’t gang up on him,” Max adds. “We just… sit him down. Be honest. Tell him we’ve seen this before.”

Oscar nods even though Max can’t see him. “He’s going to say he’s fine.”

“Of course he is.”

“And he’s going to get defensive.”

“Probably.”

Oscar swallows. “And if he shuts down?”

Max’s voice is steady. “Then we don’t leave.”

The words land heavy and reassuring all at once. Oscar closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t want to lose him,” he admits, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not going to lose him,” Max replies. “But you might have to hold him up for a bit.”

Oscar nods. “Okay.”

“Text me your flight details,” Max says. “I’ll book tonight.”

Oscar lets out a slow breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Max replies. “He’s my best mate, I don’t want to see him like this any more than you do.”

The call ends. Oscar stares at his reflection in the dark screen for a long moment before setting the phone down, knowing that loving Lando now means stepping toward the hard conversation instead of away from it.

…

The elevator ride up to Lando’s apartment is silent. Oscar stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, staring at the numbers as they climb. He can hear the faint hum of machinery above them, the mechanical whirr of cables and pulleys, but beneath that he can hear his own pulse, it’s steady, too steady, like his body has already gone into shock.

Max stands beside him, arms folded loosely, gaze forward. He doesn’t try to fill the silence, he knows this isn’t a moment for words.

When the lift doors slide open, Oscar walks toward the door he knows by heart. They knock once, no answer. Oscar’s jaw tightens. He knocks again, harder this time, knuckles stinging against the wood.

“Lando,” he calls, forcing steadiness into his voice. “We know you’re in there.”

There’s a faint shuffle inside. A dull thud, like something being kicked aside.

Max leans closer to the door. “Mate. Open up. We’re not leaving.”

Silence again.

Oscar’s pulse starts racing. He presses his palm flat against the door, as if he can feel Lando through it. “Please,” he says, softer now. “Just open the door.”

The lock finally turns. The door opens a few inches first, then wider. Lando stands there, hair messy, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. His eyes are glassy, rimmed red, like he either hasn’t slept or has been staring at the ceiling too long. He squints at them like the corridor light hurts.

“Why are you here?” he asks, voice hoarse.

Oscar’s breath catches at how wrecked he looks. “It’s Friday Lando, my flight was today,” Oscar says carefully.

Lando’s gaze shifts to Max. “You?”

Max shrugs slightly. “Thought I’d tag along.”

Lando huffs a dry laugh and steps back, leaving the door open. “This feels ominous.”

They step inside. The apartment is dim, curtains still drawn making the air feel stale. There’s a tension hanging in it, like the room itself is holding its breath.

Lando folds his arms loosely, defensive without meaning to be. “So?”

Oscar forces himself to say it. “We want to talk about your mental health.”

Lando stares at him for a second, then he laughs. “What is this?” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “An intervention?”

“No,” Oscar says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“Because it feels like that,” Lando shoots back. “You and Max turning up unannounced to tell me I’m unwell.”

Max’s expression stays steady. “We’re not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

Lando’s jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

Oscar’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not.”

“Stop saying that.”

“You told me you hated yourself.” The words hang heavier than Oscar expects.

Lando’s shoulders stiffen. “That was one night,” he mutters.

“It wasn’t just one night,” Oscar says. “It’s been weeks.”

Lando scoffs, pacing a few steps toward the kitchen before turning back. “Right. So now you’re keeping a tally?”

“That’s not fair,” Oscar says, frustration creeping in. “I’m not attacking you, I’m worried.”

“You flew to Monaco because you’re worried?” Lando asks, disbelief sharp in his voice.

“Yes.”

“And brought him?” Lando gestures vaguely toward Max.

Max finally speaks. “I’m not here to gang up on you.”

“Sure feels like it,” Lando mutters.

Oscar steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re not sleeping. You’re skipping meals. You’re snapping at people. You look exhausted all the time.”

“I’ve just won a championship,” Lando says, incredulous. “Of course I’m exhausted.”

“This isn’t just tired,” Oscar insists. “You’re… somewhere else.”

Lando’s eyes flash. “Don’t analyse me.”

“I’m not analysing you, I’m telling you I can see you.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face at that, vulnerability, then anger layered over the top of it. “You seeing me doesn’t mean you get to fix me,” he says.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Oscar says desperately. “I’m trying to be here for you.”

“Then just be here without turning it into a diagnosis.”

Oscar falters.

Max shifts his weight, watching the way the tension between them sharpens. The way this isn’t just about mental health anymore, but about control, fear, pride.

“You told him you hated yourself?” Max asks quietly.

Lando closes his eyes briefly. “Can we not?”

“That’s not a small thing to say,” Max continues gently.

Lando laughs again, brittle. “Brilliant. Now it’s a panel discussion.”

Oscar’s chest tightens. “We’re not your enemies,” he says.

“I know,” Lando snaps, then immediately softens. “I know. I just… I don’t need this.”

“Need what?” Oscar asks.

“Two people standing here telling me I’m broken.”

“No one said you’re broken.”

“That’s what this is though, isn’t it?” Lando says, voice rising slightly. “You think I’m spiralling. You think I’m about to crash.”

Oscar’s voice cracks. “I think you’re struggling.”

The honesty in it makes the room go quiet. Lando looks at Oscar properly then, really looks at him, and something shifts. “You shouldn’t worry about me, Oscar,” Lando says quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over Oscar’s shoulder.

Oscar’s fingers curl in his pockets. “Of course I’m going to worry about you,” he says, softer now. “I love you.”

Lando closes his eyes briefly. “That’s the problem.”

The words hit like a cold wave. “What?” Oscar asks, and this time he can’t hide the wobble in his voice.

Lando exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “It means you shouldn’t be worrying about whether I’ve eaten or slept or spiralled after a stupid awards ceremony,” he says. “You should be focusing on yourself, on next season.”

“I can do both,” Oscar says immediately.

“I don’t want you to.”

The certainty in it makes Oscar’s stomach drop. “What are you saying?”

Max notices it immediately. The way Lando’s focus narrows to just Oscar now. The way this is turning into something more personal, something heavier. Max exhales slowly. “I’m going to give you two some space,” he says quietly. He claps Oscar on the shoulder as he passes, firm but reassuring. “I’m in the other room if you need me.” The door to the spare bedroom closes softly behind him. And suddenly it’s just the two of them.

Oscar swallows. “Lando what… what do you mean?”

Lando swallows. “I think we should end things,” he says carefully, like he’s rehearsed the sentence a hundred times in his head. “Now, before it gets worse.”

For a second, the words don’t register. “What?” Oscar hears his own voice break.

“You need to focus on next season,” Lando continues, gaze dropping to the floor. “On being the driver everyone knows you can be. You can’t do that if you’re thinking about me.”

“Lando…”

“I’m serious, Oscar.” His voice cracks. “You’re about to start your rookie year. You need your head clear. You don’t need… this distraction.”

The word slices.

“You’re not a distraction,” Oscar snaps, tears already burning his eyes. “You’re the reason I made it here.”

Lando flinches visibly. He doesn’t argue.

“So what?” Oscar demands, stepping forward. “You just decided this on your own?”

“It’s for the best.”

“Don’t do that,” Oscar says, voice shaking. “Don’t make it sound noble when you’re just scared.”

Lando’s head snaps up. “I am scared,” he says sharply, something cracking open in his voice. “I almost lost that championship because I was too preoccupied with you and babying you through everything.”

The word lands like a punch. Oscar actually takes a step back. His breath leaves him in a rush. His ears ring. The room tilts slightly, edges blurring.

Lando’s face drains. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t.”

But it’s too late.

“You said you loved me,” Oscar whispers, tears spilling freely now.

“I do,” Lando says urgently, stepping forward before stopping himself. “I do love you, I promise I do. Don’t ever think I don’t.”

Oscar believes him, that’s what makes it unbearable. He reaches out instinctively but Lando steps back.

“I just need to breathe,” Lando says, voice trembling. “I need to get my head straight before I ruin this, before I ruin you.”

“You’re not ruining me,” Oscar says fiercely, even as his chest feels like it’s caving in. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I do.” The words are barely above a whisper. “I do,” Lando repeats. “Because right now I don’t even like the person I am. And I’m terrified that this person is going to make you hate me. Or worse, that I’ll start hating you when all you’re doing is trying to support me.”

Oscar shakes his head desperately. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.” Lando runs a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps before stopping again. “I feel like I’m standing on a cliff edge,” he says quietly. “And if I drag you any closer, you’re going to fall with me.”

Oscar’s throat tightens. “I’m not fragile.”

“I know you’re not,” Lando says quickly. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s me,” Lando says, voice breaking. “It’s me not trusting my own head.” The honesty in it hurts. “You’re right, I need help. I’m going to get help,” Lando continues, swallowing hard. “Proper help. I’ll do it properly this time. And when I’m okay again, when I’m someone I recognise again, I promise I’ll come back to you.”

When not if. Oscar clings to that word even as everything inside him fractures. The silence that follows feels like fog rolling in. Oscar doesn’t move. He just stares at Lando, willing him to say he’s wrong, to say he doesn’t mean it.

Lando steps closer, he cups Oscar’s face gently. His hands are warm, familiar. He leans and captures Oscar’s lips in a slow kiss. It tastes like salt and regret and love that isn’t strong enough to win against fear. Oscar kisses him back like it might change something, like if he just holds tighter, this will unravel in reverse.

When Lando pulls away from the kiss, his hands linger on Oscar’s face for a second longer than necessary, like he’s memorising it.

Oscar’s lips are still warm from him, still parted slightly, breath uneven. His hands are gripping the front of Lando’s hoodie like if he loosens them everything will unravel.

Lando gently pries his fingers away. “Osc,” he says softly. There’s no anger left in him now, no sharp edges, just something tired and heartbreakingly certain. “I need you to go.”

Oscar’s throat tightens, but he doesn’t argue this time. He can see it in Lando’s eyes, the decision has already been made somewhere deep inside him.

“Go home,” Lando continues quietly. “Go to Australia, be with your family, have Christmas, let your sisters annoy you, let your Mum fuss over you.”

Oscar’s eyes sting. “Lan…”

“Please,” Lando says, almost a whisper. “Don’t stay here trying to fix me.”

The word fix makes Oscar flinch. “I’m not trying to fix you.”

“I know,” Lando says quickly. “But you’ll try anyway. You’ll shrink yourself down so I don’t feel overwhelmed. You’ll pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

Oscar swallows hard.

Lando brushes his thumb along Oscar’s cheek, wiping away the tears that escape that he makes no effort to hold back. “You’ve got a rookie season starting,” Lando murmurs. “You’ve got your whole life about to change. You should be excited, you should be living it, not stuck in my head with me.”

Oscar’s chest aches so deeply it feels physical. “I don’t want to live it without you.”

“You’re not,” Lando says softly. “You’re just living it without me right next to you for a bit.”

The way he says it makes it sound temporary. Oscar wants to fight but he can see the desperation in Lando’s eyes, the way this isn’t about Oscar at all, it’s about survival.

“You really want me to go,” Oscar says quietly.

Lando nods once. “I need you to.”

Oscar inhales shakily.

“Go home,” Lando repeats, gentler now. “Go laugh, go meet people, go be twenty. Don’t feel tied to me while I figure this out.”

Oscar’s heart cracks at that. “I don’t want to meet people.”

A faint, sad smile flickers across Lando’s face. “I know.” He leans in, presses one last kiss to Oscar’s forehead. “You deserve someone steady,” Lando whispers. “And I want to be that for you, I just can’t be it right now.”

Oscar nods slowly. He hates how calm he feels, like his body has shut down to protect itself. “I’ll go,” he says, voice small but steady.

Lando’s shoulders sag slightly in relief and devastation all at once.

“I love you,” Oscar adds, because he needs him to hear it one more time.

Lando closes his eyes briefly. “I love you too,” he says, barely audible.

Oscar steps back and this time, he doesn’t fight it. He turns toward the door on legs that feel disconnected from the rest of him. As Oscar reaches the door, he looks back, Lando is standing in the middle of the dim apartment. Shoulders slightly hunched, looking smaller than Oscar has ever seen him. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

In the hallway, the tears come fully. Oscar presses his hand to his chest like he can physically hold himself together.

Max steps out after him. For a moment, neither of them speak.

“It’s over,” Oscar manages.

Max nods. “I’m so sorry Oscar.”

Oscar wipes at his face, but the tears keep coming. “He thinks he’s protecting me,” he says.

“He’s protecting himself too,” Max replies quietly.

Oscar nods. “I love him,” he says.

“I know.”

Oscar straightens slowly, even though he feels hollowed out. “Make sure he gets help,” he says. “Please?”

“I will.”

Oscar nods once. He turns and walks towards to elevator, each step heavy. His heart feels broken in a way that is sharp and clean and real. But beneath the devastation, beneath the ache that feels endless, there is still something steady. Lando said when, not if. And for now, that thin thread of hope is enough to keep Oscar moving forward, even as it feels like he’s leaving a piece of himself behind in that dim apartment.

Chapter Text

The plane engines start up as they prepare for the long haul journey to Australia. Oscar sits in the window seat, hoodie pulled low over his forehead, the cabin lights harsh and artificial. The world outside has already dissolved into darkness, the lights from the terminal building creating streaking shadows across the tarmac.

His phone lies face down in his lap. He flips it over, no new messages. It has been a week since he left Lando’s apartment, the door closing shut between them signifying the end of their relationship.

He’d tried at first, a few simple messages. ‘I hope you’re okay.’ ‘I’m proud of you for getting help.’ ‘I’m here, even if you don’t want me to be.’ None of them delivered. The grey ‘not delivered’ text sits like a quiet confirmation. Lando had blocked him. He understands why but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

His phone buzzes softly in his hand, Max. Max had called him the day after to let Oscar know that he was going to stay in Monaco with Lando.

“Okay.” Oscar’s throat tightens.

“He said he needed space,” Max continues. “But I don’t like the idea of him being alone right now.”

Oscar nods slowly. “Thank you.”

There’s a shuffling sound on Max’s end, like he’s stepping into another room. “He’s… not great,” Max admits. “He’s barely sleeping.”

Oscar presses his lips together. “Has he eaten?”

“Trying,” Max says. “I made him toast this morning, he picked at it.”

Oscar exhales slowly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah.”

Silence hums between them. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Max says finally. “Keep you updated.”

“Okay, thanks Max.” The line disconnects.

And true to his word, a day later, his phone buzzes again while he’s lying in bed midafternoon, watching the fan on the ceiling spin in relentless circles.

Oscar answers on the first ring. “Hey.”

“Got him outside today,” Max says without preamble. “We went for a walk.”

Oscar sits up in bed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It took some convincing but we walked along the port. He didn’t talk much.”

“That’s… that’s good.”

“He agreed to stop at a café.” Max continues. Oscar’s fingers tighten around the phone. “He actually ate.”

Something fragile and hopeful flickers in his chest. “Good,” he breathes. “That’s good.” He repeats.

“He looked… tired,” Max adds. “But less stuck. If that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Max hesitates. “He asked about you.”

Oscar’s heart stutters painfully. “What did he say?”

“Just… if you got back to the UK okay.”

Oscar swallows hard. “Tell him I did.”

A pause. “I will,” Max says gently.

Another call the next day. Early morning this time, sunlight streaming into Oscar’s bedroom.

“He agreed to talk to his psychologist properly,” Max says.

Oscar’s shoulders sag in relief. “For real?”

“For real. Booked in for regular sessions. He gave me his phone so he can’t cancel at the last minute.”

“Good.”

Then yesterday Max called to say Lando finally spoke with his Mum.

“She flew in overnight, got here early this morning.”

That one hits differently. “Is that helping?”

“I think so,” Max says. “He doesn’t seem to pretend as much around her.”

Oscar smiles faintly at that. “He never could.”

Max lets out a quiet breath. “He’s starting the program in the new year.”

“The structured one?”

“Yeah.”

Oscar closes his eyes briefly. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Max is quiet for a moment. “Are you okay Oscar?” he asks.

Oscar leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know.” That’s the most honest answer he has.

Now sitting in his seat as the plane prepares for take off, Oscar answers immediately, turning his body toward the window to keep his voice low. “Hey.”

Max’s voice is quiet, almost cautious. “You on the plane?”

“Yeah, about to take off.”

“He had a better day today,” Max says.

Oscar exhales slowly.

“Still not sleeping properly,” Max adds. “But he didn’t shut down when I mentioned you were flying back to Australia today.”

Oscar’s chest aches at that. “He didn’t?”

“No.”

There’s a quiet stretch of static between them, the kind that feels heavier than unusual.

“Are you staying in Monaco for Christmas?”

“Yeah,” Max replies. “I might fly home for a couple of days, not sure yet. All depends how he’s going.”

Oscar nods, even though Max can’t see it. “Thanks. For… all of it.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I feel like I do.”

Another pause. “Have a good Christmas Oscar,” Max says finally, his voice softens. “Try to switch off a bit.”

“I’ll try,” Oscar says. “You too.”

“And New Year’s,” Max adds. “Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “No promises.”

“Seriously,” Max says. “You’ve got a big year coming up.”

“Yeah I know.”

“Alright,” Max sighs. “Text me when you land.”

“I will.”

“And Oscar?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s getting help, that’s what matters right now.”

Oscar swallows. “Yeah, it is.”

“Alright, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Max.”

The line clicks off. Oscar stares at the dark screen for a moment before flipping his phone face down again just as the plane starts to roll toward the runway. The cabin lights dim even further as most passengers drift to sleep. Oscar remains awake, eyes fixed on the horizon where darkness meets more darkness. He wants to be angry, wants to feel something, about Lando ending thing, blocking him, about Lando deciding what was “best” for them without asking. But anger doesn’t settle in his chest. Instead he’s just hollow.

The plane cuts through the sky relentlessly, carrying him further away. He closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the window. The distance between London and Monaco and Melbourne feels endless. But somewhere inside him, beneath the ache and the emptiness and the unanswered messages, there is still something steady. And as the plane carries him across continents, Oscar holds onto the quiet belief that sometimes letting go is not the end of a story.

…

When he steps through the sliding doors at Melbourne Airport, the air feels different, thicker and warmer. It smells faintly of jet fuel and sunscreen and eucalyptus, a strange but deeply familiar combination that hits him straight in the chest. It feels like home.

He spots his parents immediately. His Mum is practically bouncing, waving both arms like she’s afraid he’ll somehow miss her. His Dad stands beside her, more contained but no less relieved, one hand already lifting in greeting.

For a second, Oscar just stands there, because the last time he walked through an arrivals terminal like this, everything in his life had felt certain. He’d gotten his seat for next season, and he had someone who loved him waiting for him somewhere else in the world. Now it feels like he’s arriving without something, with a part of him missing.

His Mum crashes into him. Her hug is fierce, tight enough to knock the breath from his lungs. She smells like flowery perfume and laundry detergent and home. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice thick.

His Dad wraps an arm around both of them, squeezing his shoulder in that steady way he always does. “You look knackered,” his Dad says, half fond, half concerned.

“I feel it,” Oscar replies, managing a small smile.

But standing there, wedged between them, something inside him softens. He hadn’t realised how tightly wound he’d been until that moment, how much he’d been bracing himself for weeks.

Christmas at the Piastri house unfolds in a way that feels almost disorienting in its normality. Morning swims at the beach, salt drying in his hair as he sits on the sand beside his sisters. They argue about who swam furthest out, his Dad pretends to referee. The sun burns his shoulders pink the first day because he forgets to reapply sunscreen, and his Mum scolds him like he’s twelve again.

Family lunches stretch endlessly. Plates refilled, cold drinks sweating on the table, neighbours dropping by unannounced, laughter rising in waves.

He smiles when someone nudges him for a story from the season. He laughs when his sisters tease him about him moving into his “celebrity era”. He lets them whilst he floats through it like he’s watching someone else live it.

But late at night, when the house settles and the air hums with cicadas outside his bedroom window, the quiet presses in. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazily above him. His phone glows in his hand as he scrolls through photos he should probably archive but can’t bring himself to.

There’s one from Singapore, both he and Lando squinting into bright paddock lights, Lando’s arm slung loosely around Oscar, fingers curled at his waist like it’s instinct. Another from Vegas, Lando laughing mid-sentence, head thrown back, Oscar blurred slightly beside him. And one from Abu Dhabi, floodlights reflecting off champagne spray. Lando golden and radiant, looking at Oscar like the world had narrowed to just that space between them.

Oscar studies that one the longest. He doesn’t cry, the tears feel used up. Instead, he just traces the edge of the screen with his thumb until the ache inside his chest shifts from sharp to something duller.

One evening, after a long lunch that rolls into dusk, his Mum finds him sitting on the back steps. The air is warm, the sky fading from orange to deep blue, cicadas buzzing in the trees.

She doesn’t ask if she can sit, she just lowers herself beside him. “You’ve been somewhere else all week,” she says gently.

Oscar stares at the grass for a long moment. He’s been going over this conversation in his head since he got on the plane. Wondering how to say it without making it real. Wondering if saying it out loud will crack something open he won’t be able to close again. Part of him doesn’t want to tell her because once he does, it becomes official. It becomes a fact, not just a feeling he’s carrying quietly. Another part of him wants to say it so badly it hurts.

He exhales slowly. “Lando ended things.” The words feel foreign in his mouth.

Nicole goes still beside him. “Oh, sweetheart.” She doesn’t rush him, doesn’t pepper him with questions, she just turns slightly so she’s facing him fully. “When?” she asks gently.

“A couple of weeks ago, in Monaco.”

“And he ended it?” she asks.

Oscar nods faintly. “Yeah.” He rubs his hands together, trying to keep them steady. “He’s not okay,” he says. “Mentally. He hasn’t been for a while. He said he hates who he is right now. Said he’s scared he’ll ruin everything, ruin me.”

Nicole’s brow furrows. “And you?”

“I told him he doesn’t have to do it alone.” His voice tightens despite himself. “That I’m not fragile.” He thinks about that moment, about the way Lando stepped back instead of forward. “He thinks he’s protecting me,” Oscar continues quietly. “Said I need to focus on my rookie season. That I shouldn’t be worrying about him. Told me to come home, to live my life, be twenty.”

Nicole studies him carefully. “And what did you want?”

Oscar swallows. “I wanted to stay.” The answer feels raw and simple. “I would’ve stayed through all of it.”

She nods slowly. “I know you would.”

He looks down at his hands. The hardest part, he realises, isn’t that Lando ended things, it’s that Oscar understands why. “The worst bit is I get it,” he says quietly. “I get why he did it. I could see how tired he was, how scared, and I hate that I understand.”

“You can understand someone’s reasons and still be heartbroken,” Nicole says gently.

He nods. “He promised he’d come back,” Oscar adds, and even as he says it he hears how small it sounds. “Said when he’s okay again, he’ll come back.”

Nicole is quiet for a moment. “Maybe he will,” she says. “But you can’t put your life on hold waiting for that.”

He thinks about that a lot, about the way Lando said go, about the way Oscar didn’t fight it in the end because he could see the panic behind his eyes. “I didn’t argue at the end,” Oscar admits. “He asked me to go so I went.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

“I know.” He stares out into the darkening backyard. “I don’t want to stop loving him,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to,” Nicole replies. “Love doesn’t switch off like a tap.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I just feel… hollow,” he admits. “Like there’s this space where he used to be.”

Nicole reaches over and takes his hand. “That’s grief,” she says softly. “It doesn’t have to mean something died, it just means something changed.”

He looks up at the stars beginning to peak through the sky. “I keep thinking about Abu Dhabi,” he says. “How sure it felt, like we’d survived something.”

Nicole smiles sadly. “Sometimes the brightest moments don’t mean the path ahead is smooth,” she says. “Sometimes they’re just bright.”

He leans back, exhausted by his own thoughts. “I don’t regret it,” he says after a moment. “Any of it.”

“That’s good,” she says softly.

“I just wish it didn’t feel so unfinished.”

She moves closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Most real love stories are unfinished at some point,” she murmurs. “That doesn’t mean they’re over forever. It just means you’re in a chapter you don’t like.” Nicole sighs. “When I was your age,” she begins, “I thought I’d marry someone who wasn’t your Dad.”

Oscar glances at her, surprised.

“He was kind. He was ambitious. He was also deeply unhappy and didn’t know how to sit with that. I thought loving him harder would fix it.”

“Did it?” Oscar asks quietly.

“No,” she says simply. “It nearly broke me.”

He stares ahead.

“You can’t set yourself on fire trying to keep someone else warm,” she continues gently. “Even if you love them.”

He nods slowly. “He says he’s getting help,” Oscar murmurs.

“Good,” she says. “Then let him.” The simplicity of it feels almost cruel.

Oscar rests his head briefly against her shoulder. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to say it out loud, to have someone hold it with him.

“You will be okay Oscar,” Nicole says quietly. “Whether he comes back or not.”

Oscar doesn’t know if he fully believes that yet but sitting there in the warm Melbourne night, cicadas buzzing and his Mum’s arm steady around him, it feels a little less impossible than it did a week ago.

…

A few days after New Year’s, when the last of the leftover pavlova and Christmas ham has finally disappeared from the fridge and the house feels quieter again, Mark calls. Oscar knows what it’s about before he answers.

“Morning,” Mark says, brisk as ever, no small talk. “All your preseason testing dates have been confirmed. You’ll be needed back at the MTC the first week of February to start simulator work. And just giving you the heads up there will be a lot of media obligations in the first week.”

Oscar sits up straighter at his desk, pen already in hand though there’s nothing he really needs to write down. “Got it.”

“We’ll try and keep messaging tight,” Mark continues. “We’ll try to make sure media doesn’t dredge up anything about last season and the Alpine conflict so you can just focus on driving. Let the lawyers and PR handle the rest.”

“I will.”

A pause.

“You ready?” Mark asks, and this time it isn’t about logistics.

Oscar looks out the window. The sun is blazing over the backyard, his sisters are half arguing, half laughing by the pool. Somewhere inside, his Mum is running the dishwasher, the sounds are ordinary but grounding.

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “I’m ready.”

“Good,” Mark replies. “Because this is your year.”

When the call ends, Oscar remains seated. He turns his phone face down on the desk. If Lando wants him to focus on racing, then he would. If Lando wants him to live his life, then he would. He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment, letting the heat settle into his bones.

Next season, they will stand on opposite sides of the same garage, same team, same car, same colours stitched into their suits. The thought makes his chest tighten in a way he can’t quite name. There won’t be distance measured in continents anymore, there will be distance measured in metres.

He imagines it, the first race weekend, in the controlled chaos of a McLaren garage. He imagines catching sight of Lando across the garage, helmet tucked under his arm, laughing with someone. He imagines the way their eyes might meet for a split second. And if Lando is watching him, it won’t be from some distant place of recovery, it will be from across the garage.

Oscar’s jaw sets slightly, he doesn’t want to be Lando’s ex, Lando’s protégé, or someone Lando has to worry about. He will be a teammate, a competitor, a driver who belongs there. He pushes his chair back and stands, restless energy beginning to hum through him. He’ll throw everything he has into this, into the gym sessions, the long runs, the hours in the sim. He’ll memorise every corner of Bahrain before he even sets foot there for testing.

He won’t shrink himself, he won’t tiptoe around someone else’s pressure, he won’t let heartbreak soften his edges. If Lando needs space to fix himself, Oscar will build something solid in the meantime.

He walks to the window and rests his hand against the glass, the heat seeping through his palm. He thinks about the first time he’ll pull the visor down as an official McLaren driver. The quiet inside the helmet, the engine vibrating through his spine, the lights going out. He thinks about being on the podium, about champagne, about standing there not because someone helped him get there, not because someone carried him through, but because he earned it.

And if Lando is standing beside him in that garage, watching his data trace scroll across a monitor, watching him fight for position wheel to wheel, then maybe he’ll see that Oscar is not something fragile, maybe he’ll feel proud, maybe he’ll realise that loving someone doesn’t mean losing to them.

Oscar picks up his phone again, not to check messages or to look through old photos. He opens his training app instead, there’s a session scheduled for the afternoon, he taps confirm. If next season is going to test him in ways he hasn’t even imagined yet, he’s going to meet it head on.

And when the lights go out for the first race of the season, he’ll know he didn’t waste the months in between waiting for something that may or may not come back to him.