Chapter Text
--2021--
Salty sweat mixes with a sweet champagne where each soak through the drenched fabric of Oscar's race suit.
He won.
He won in Monza; the team are thrilled. He's barely off the podium - adrenaline still buzzing through his veins - when he's stopped by none other than Daniel Ricciardo.
He and Daniel have met a few times by now, both having been apart of the Renault team in some form or another, but the novelty of being congratulated by his fellow Aussie is still yet to wear off. And it's nice to have another Australian around - someone who fully understands his goals and ambitions; his sacrifices because, as much as Mark “gets it”, he doesn't. Not really. His brief chat with Daniel is cut short when Oscar's brain practically shuts down. Nothing special happens, not really; just a simple phrase. “Congrats on the win, mate. Good race.”
Fuck. It's. That's.
“Uhm- yeah, thank you, uh- thanks Lando, it's nice to meet you...” The Brit chuckles at his stuttering, staining Oscar's flushed cheeks a darker crimson. There's a polite grin pulled across his heart-shaped lips - not that Oscar's looking right now, okay? But he has.. Looked. Lando Norris has been his idol for years; moving through the ranks like it was nothing, he was such an inspiration to Oscar. And- yeah, maybe he had, like, the teeniest hero-crush on the guy. That seems to have extended into early adulthood..
He thought he'd be cool if he ever met the elder; shake his hand, greet him politely and professionally. Alas, the fantasy is far from his current reality of stumbling over every syllable as he tries to figure out how Lando can seem so impressive when all he's doing is standing there, trying his best not to blatantly giggle in Oscar's face.
--
The podium ceremony for the F2 race has just about cleared up as Daniel drags him across the pit lane. He's not quite sure why he's here, to be honest. He knows Daniel's old colleague just won - he's a good driver, Lando could tell you that for certain, though he does seem to have forgotten the other's name. Oops. It's not like they've ever met, okay? It's hard to remember random names without memories or experiences to go along with them.
As they reach the back of the podium, the top 3 are making their way down the stairs. The F1 drivers offer polite congratulations to the drivers in second and third, waiting patiently for the winner to appear. Lando's not really listening, if he's honest, when Daniel and this guy - who also seems to be Australian - start chatting about something? He’s not paying attention! Sue him!
The guy seems nice enough, though, and Lando’d be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the soft chuckles the younger let's slip to Daniel's poorly constructed jokes. At some point, there seems to be a natural break in the chatter which Lando seizes as his opportunity to actually engage in conversation and not just stand there like a lost puppy at Daniel's heel. The response he receives is. Cute. The guy falling over himself a little just to get a sentence out. He's a good looking guy, Lando can admit that. A sweat-soaked half curl sticks to his forehead beneath his pirelli cap, rosy cheeks glistening under the layer of champagne sprayed over his skin. Pretty and talented. An awkward silence falls over the three of them, both Aussie's rocking back and forth on the spot as Lando stares - probably far too intensely - at the younger, trying his hardest to remember the guy's name. He was Max's teammate for god's sake, he has to know it..
It's not until later, when he's back in the McLaren garages and preparing for his own race that he gives up, deciding he's better off just asking someone after the race. You'd think it'd be easier than this, the guy having just won the F2 race - he's leading the championship too, Lando's pretty sure.
--
By the time the Australian makes it back to his hotel, all he wants to do is pass out on the bed. Celebrations seem like a ‘tomorrow problem’. He's already knackered from his race earlier, and sticking around to watch the F1. He'd felt so awake at the track, adrenaline pumping just being near the cars he so longs to drive next year. He has to wait, though, which is utter bullshit. With a heavy sigh and decisive shift in thought, Oscar moves to peel his team shirt over his head - he probably needs a shower. If Robert’s to be trusted, he absolutely reeks of mouldy booze where the champagne combines with his, now stale, sweat.
The hotel bathroom has a large mirror spanning the wall opposite the shower - a little weird, but okay. As Oscar enters the room, something catches his eye. The mark on his ribs is darker; now a full and opaque black. Oscar's always been interested in the mechanics of Soulmates and the tattoos that come along with them, especially since he'd somehow managed a faint-grey half-letter that seemed to darken very slightly over the past couple of years. He found it strange, considering you're supposed to get a full black tattoo of your soulmate's initial when you first meet and then a second when you realise your love for the other - that's just what happens. So how come he's had half of what now appears to be an ‘L’ draped over the curve of his rib for years now?
It's something he's thought about for hours on end. Unfortunately, despite having been around for thousands of years, soulmate tattoos are something people know very little about. Everyone's tattoos are slightly different, but some really veer off the path. Those are the ones he loves to research; they relate more to his own anyway. He's never seen anything about his specific issue, though. He's scoured the internet for any mention of a mark seemingly showing through before a first meeting but every time, he's come back with more questions than answers.
This is too much to think about right now. All he'll take from this at the minute, is that he met them. He has to have. That's the only reason he can think to explain such a sudden change in his tattoo after years of steady progression.
He feels a tingle through his spine knowing his soulmate was in the paddock. They already share an interest. Maybe the universe does know what it's doing.
--
‘Worth it.’ is the only thought Lando can process where it's crammed in between his pounding headache and the throbbing wall of his skull. The morning after a celebration is usually pretty drab, Lando often calling Jon to his room for the sole purpose of complaining about the decisions he'd made the night before - decisions Jon had explicitly advised against. Today, though? He's finding it difficult to mind the rhythmic thumps of his migraine or the stale taste in the desert that is his mouth. A fuckin’ 1-2. Beautiful. Sure, he would've loved to have been on that top step, but a 1-2 for the team? In Monza? With Daniel forcing a nasty concoction of foot sweat and bitter alcohol down his throat? What more could he ask for, really?
He sits up as slowly as he can manage, reaching out to peel back his duvet. He freezes.
On his wrist sits a black ‘O’, prominent against his tanned skin. Fuck. He tries to rub it off - maybe it's just pen! He swipes a finger against his tongue; tries again. The mark doesn't budge. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
Lando has been waiting for this moment his whole life - finally meeting his soulmate, finally finding someone who understands him completely. And he'd met them on a night he was black out drunk and bumping into so many people in that club it could be fucking anyone. Double Fuck. Well that's that, then. There's about a 0.0001% chance he'll meet them again and even then, he won't know. He won't be able to tell. He'd have to fall in love with them on the spot and notice his tattoo lengthen to include the initial of their surname to actually fucking know who it is. It sucks ass.
This happens sometimes. Lando's always hated hearing stories about people who lose their soulmates - one way or another. His mood is considerably more sour now. He doesn't want to think about it; can't look at his wrist. His foggy, screaming head is struggling to remember where he'd left all those bracelets the fans have started giving him.
Jon doesn't question it when Lando makes his way to breakfast - his right arm clad in about 20 woven strings in clashing shades of neon.
--2022--
Now, Oscar's never been one to complain. He's usually very level-headed; sees things from everyone's perspective and thinks before reacting. But Jesus Christ! He won the championship! In his rookie season! You'd think that'd be enough to get you a seat in F1, but no. He's grateful for the reserve role - he is - but it's still so frustrating. He worked so hard and thought it might actually be paying off - all the sacrifices he'd made for this career. Yet here he is; stuck on the sidelines for at least a year, watching other people live his dream. A little complaining feels justified this time.
In fairness, Oscar amends as he makes his way through the most difficult season of his life, it's not all bad - he does get to test the car a few times throughout the year and he's learning a lot about how to be a part of a Formula 1 team. And, maybe, his change of perspective has a little, tiny, bit to do with him getting to interview Lando.. maybe. The Brit’s just as dazzling as ever; Oscar's barely able to tear his eyes from the other man as he jokes around with Alex. His tan skin stretches smoothly over his sharp jaw - soft curls contrasting the chiselled lines of his face. He's a living Greek statue - Oscar concludes. Carved from marble by the finest sculptor to ever live.
In the few months he's been a reserve driver, he's realised he has a lot more time to sit and stare at pretty racing drivers and his hero-crush on Lando mayyyy have graduated to a, mild and totally inconsequential, infatuation with the elder driver. It's nothing, really. Just surface level. And, of course, he's still very much in awe of the other's skill - he's memorised every time he watches Lando out on track; the same way it's been since he was a teenager.
During the days he has almost literally nothing to do, Oscar finds his mind drifting toward Lando. What's new, huh? But it's different now. In the past when he'd thought of the other, Oscar mainly viewed him with a sense of awe and a want to race against him - to beat him. Recently, something else had snuck in beside those thoughts. Let's just say Oscar's become very well acquainted with his right hand. Yeah. It's been a dry few months, not just in terms of driving. It does make him feel a little guilty, to think of Lando in that way. But it's not like it means anything, not really. And besides, he's not going to be in a room with the other for any extended period of time. Not with how his future’s looking at Alpine, at least. Maybe he needs to get out there a little - with contract negotiations, sure, but also, one’s own hand can only be so entertaining.
--
Lando's having a decent season. The car's working fairly well underneath him and his team seem to be clicking better than they had in years gone by.
Despite his success within the team, his thoughts are elsewhere. He's been trying to get his head straight for months but, no matter what he does, he always ends up at that little mark on his wrist. He's never regretted a night-out more. There were only two things Lando had ever wanted in life; to be a formula one driver and to love his soulmate. Whether that be platonically or romantically, he's not picky. He just wants someone to understand him, to be patient with him, to learn about him at his own pace. He wants someone who gets him effortlessly; he wants someone to know him.
A few had come close and, don't get him wrong, he very much loves and appreciates all his friends, but. There's always some level of difficulty. Whether that be through misjudging the way Lando's brain works, or the patience that's required to spend more than 10 minutes alone with him. He's aware that just talking to him is a lot.
A knock on his hotel room door finally snaps him out of his head. Speak of the devil, huh? Those aforementioned well-loved friends greet him as he looks out into the hallway.
“Lando, mate, get dressed,” George demands in lieu of a greeting as he pushes past the younger. “We're going out!” People don't realise how loud he is, Lando thinks. The others pile through his door and flood into his hotel room. Daniel and Alex chat without break as they move to plop themselves down on Lando's bed. Max is still in the doorway; evidently more focused on whoever he's texting than where he's supposed to be walking. Lando turns from the Dutchman back to the centre of the room where George stands, an imposing figure as he faces the Brit with an expectant look draped over his features. “Come on, hurry up! We're going to one of those clubs Daniel mentioned last week. And hey, who knows? You might find The One.” His voice is sing-songy. Light. He doesn't know. Lando hasn't told them; hasn't told anyone. He doesn’t wanna think about it. If no one knows about his ‘soulmate situation’, then maybe he can ignore it a little longer.
There's a cheeky, teasing grin tugging George's lips as he says it. The others around him emphatically agree, pausing whatever they’re doing to make a point of it. “Hah. Yeah alright, alright. I'm… I'm getting ready.” A light chuckle floats through his words; a heaviness sits beneath it. He smiles. His eyes remain empty and glazed. From his peripheral, Lando catches Daniel’s brows scrunching together; concern written over his face.
Upon arriving at the club, Lando realises 2 things. Number 1 being; it's the same club. It's the same fucking club from a year ago - the one he and Daniel chose to celebrate their 1-2. Fuck.
Number 2; he has no reasonable excuse to get out of this - beside the truth and, uh, No.
Daniel's been trying to talk to him since they left the hotel. He hasn't said what about, specifically, but Lando has a bad feeling about it - a little cluster of alarms blaring loudly in his brain. The Brit makes sure he's in constant conversation in group settings, avoiding Daniel's eyes as well as he can - probably only furthering his friend's suspicion.
Heavy bass pulses through Lando's chest as he presses through the sea of bodies - making his way towards the bar. He orders a round of shots for the group, Max not included since he has an early flight tomorrow. Part of what George had said planted a doomed spark of hope in his chest. Ocean eyes scan the crowd before him - foolishly trying to spot someone he recognises from a night he simultaneously can't remember and will never forget. All he sees are hot people dancing in a hot room; none of them have a care in the world. It's as if they're sweating their concerns away. He wants that. To switch his brain off for a minute. There's a tap on his arm where it rests beside him; the bartender letting him know his drinks are ready.
Just before he can pick up the tray, Daniel Ricciardo’s hand is on his shoulder, arm boxing him in. He's fairly close to the Brit, the crowd making it difficult to stand an acceptable distance apart - making Daniel’s attempts to shout over the music just that bit more painful. “Mate, are you alright? You seemed off earlier.”
Nope. Jail. Questions such as these are not permitted.
Lando pretends he simply hasn't heard Daniel over the thumping of the drums and loud edm blasting their ears; it feels like the safest option. He turns back to the bar without a word and reaches for the tray of drinks. The sleeve of his black dress shirt pulls up his arm slightly, his bracelets fall forward along the line of his wrist and reveal his tattoo. Fuck this. This is the one thing he's trying not to think about. Fucking Daniel and his well-placed concern.
He takes a shot. The alcohol burns his throat; his nose scrunching at the feeling. A glance at the Aussie's furrowed brow tells him he needs to get out of here, quickly. He pushes past his teammate, leaving the drinks and ignoring the elder's shouts through the wall of sound. Logically, he knows Daniel's just worried, but this is not a problem he can face sober… Or drunk, for that matter.
Making his way to the dancefloor, he hopes he'll be able to float through the evening like the crowd he'd been watching a minute ago; his brain quiet and buzzing with that splash of alcohol. He doesn't need to go crazy tonight - he may even turn in early at the rate things are going.
--
Oscar grabs his phone from the once-crisp, hotel sheets. He opens up the old F2 WhatsApp group and shoots a text, asking his friends if they wanna hang out before they all head home since it's a support weekend.
Fred and Arthur immediately start going through his suitcase for a “better outfit” after barging into his room and announcing they were taking him to a club. Normally, he'd hate the idea. But today, it's exactly what he's been hoping for. He knew his friends would find it strange if he suddenly decided he loves clubbing, but he knows them well enough to assume that's where they'll head if he asks to spend time with them after a race weekend. He needs to get out of his head a little, clear his mind of all the contract stress and pesky British racing drivers. He needs to put himself out there for once and that's what he intends to do tonight.
“Putting himself out there” is, as Oscar is quick to realise, much easier said than done.
Arriving just outside the club's entrance, their little group is joined by Arthur's brother - the older man smiling politely and greeting them all individually. He’s always very attentive to the people he's spending time with, subtly adjusting his energy levels to fit each person. It's something Oscar truly appreciates about Charles.
As soon as he steps through the door, Oscar feels heavily out of his depth. Ok, maybe his expectations for himself were a bit too high. It's when he's being dragged towards the dancefloor with both arms outstretched in front of him that Oscar realises he made a huge mistake. He should not have allowed this to happen. Luckily, the extra days out of a race car have given the Aussie a lot of spare time to spend at the gym. After a fair bit of wiggling, he frees himself from his good friends’ grasps and disappears into the crowd before they have a chance to tackle him.
Leaning himself awkwardly against a wall, Oscar notices he's completely fucked off the whole point of him being here. He's supposed to be chatting people up, getting over his tiny (really, it's miniscule), crush on Lando Norris.
Speak of the devil, eh?
Woodland eyes scan the room - seemingly drawn to one specific face under the flashing lights, behind the wall of snare drums and high hats. It's a face he knows far too well, a face he's studied and dreamed of, a face he's supposed to be forgetting about tonight.
Tearing his eyes away and trying to force his heart rate to chill the fuck out, Oscar turns to his right, spotting an attractive girl with blonde hair that hangs straight on either side of her model-like face. Now or never. Oscar tries - he really, really does. He tries so hard to keep up a conversation with this beautiful woman. Tries to listen, to reply with something at least a bit funny. He can't stop his eyes drifting past her shoulder to that little pest that infests his every, damn, thought.
He blinks out of his trance when he hears a scoff beneath the bass line in his ears. Usually, he'd feel somewhat offended if someone walked off during a conversation with him, but this time? It's completely justified, he knows he's pretty much been ignoring that perfect woman in favour of thirsting for a guy he can't have and shouldn't want.
Before he can even properly wallow in the heartache of it all, Fred bounds up to him in a way not too dissimilar to an excitable puppy - with a drink in hand and two Leclercs in tow. “Mate, we're gonna get a booth!” Through the accent, Fred’s beaming smile and first drink of the night are clearly audible. Oscar can't help but follow the little group to a comfy looking sofa in a back corner of the club. It's quieter here, just enough to hear each other without straining too much to listen.
--
Reuniting with his group, Lando's pulled aside by a certain flustered Dutchman. “Charles is here with his brother's friends.” Hello to you too, Max. What is it with his friends and completely forgoing pleasantries? The man's eyes are wide, his cheeks dusted pink and Lando knows him well enough to realise it's not from the heat of the club. Being the absolute class friend that he is, Lando announces this news to the whole group, who decides collectively they ought to go say hi. Of course. Honestly? Lando could really do with heading home. He's not having a good time. Every moment he spends here is another reminder of what he lost on a night just like this. And yet, he stays - he knows how important this is to Max.
The look on Arthur Leclerc’s face as three - Alex and George having fucked off elsewhere - sweaty, and vaguely drunk, F1 drivers stagger their way towards him is, quite honestly, priceless. What Lando appreciates more, though, is the look on Oscar Piastri's. Yeah, he learned the guy's name. Character development, or whatever. The younger is staring at him, seemingly awestruck, and subconsciously sucking the entirety of his lower lip into his mouth. It's a little endearing - puts him at ease, for some reason.
Daniel and Lando take a seat in the booth, greeting the others as they settle into the comfortable leather. Max, on the other hand, remains where he stands - hovering awkwardly by the table. “Max, mon cœur, sit next to me.” Lando recognises it - that softest tone Charles reserves only for the elder of the two. He's tried several times to tell Max to take his chance; to “Just go for it, mate,”, but the Dutchman will not be told. It's barely even a risk - Lando is so, undeniably, certain that Charles would leap at any opportunity Max could present him with.
And yet.
Max has never really cared for the whole ‘soulmate’ thing. It's something Lando's always admired about him and, more recently, envied.
He wishes - so deeply - that he wasn't so distraught at the loss he's suffered. Is it even really a loss if you didn't know you had it? He knows so many people who've fallen in love; who marry and are more than happy with partners not destined for them by the stars. Hell, his own parents don't even have tattoos, neither having even met their soulmate. Yet still, he can't help but crave that purity of understanding, that true - perfect - connection. Maybe it's different for him; he technically has met them after all. He just doesn't remember it. Maybe that's why it hurts so much.
It's a nice thought, placating, but it can't be true. No. He's had this craving - this insatiable hunger for a deeper love than most could imagine - since he can remember. It's all he's wanted.
Tonight is supposed to be about forgetting, though. About drinking with friends and putting any painful thoughts out of his mind. But here? Of all places? It'd be easier, he thinks, if they'd gone to one of those other bars Daniel had shown George a couple of days ago. But, in fairness, this makes a lot more sense.
Sod’s law and all that.
He's barely paying attention anymore. Which. Yeah, ok, it's rude. But he can't help it. This club is the last place he wants to be.
--
After a handful of drinks, Oscar's starting to feel more at ease in this familiarly unfamiliar environment. He's been to several clubs over the past couple of years, but he never feels more at home in them. At least he's consistent.
Even with the alcohol in his system, the Aussie wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep til midday. But he can't. They've barely been here 2 hours. He wants to spend time with his friends. And so, he stays.
“Ozcor-”, that's certainly a sober way to pronounce his name, “Is tha Max Vashteppn?” He takes a moment to decode Fred's slurred mess of a question before following the other's eyeliner across the room, stopping to toss the world champion a polite smile. The Dutch driver’s eyes widen a moment as if he's been caught somehow - eventually snapping his eyes to the wall beside him.
Casual.
Oscar turns back to the table, a slight crease between his brows as he lets an amused chuckle drop from his lips. In his peripheral, the Aussie notices a vacant looking Frederik Vesti staring at the tip of his nose and - discreetly - slides the other's drink to the opposite side of the table. Light weight.
“What the hell?” Arthur's voice is significantly more sober than Oscar had been expecting, honestly. But the surprised and genuine confusion lacing his tone peaks Oscar's interest, the younger turning his whole body to face what he now realises is a small pack of mildly intoxicated F1 drivers. He greets Daniel politely as he slides into the booth, his brain sort of pausing on the sweat drenched curls sticking to the tanned forehead of his biggest problem. Lando Norris slides across the soft leather, settling in next to Daniel and directly across from Oscar himself. Lovely. Perfect - actually.
The Australian falls back to reality, finally releasing his lower lip from between his teeth, as Charles' voice bounces against the padded walls of their little booth. Max Verstappen just crawled under the table. He can't help but let out a tiny snort into his fist as the defending Formula One world champion re-emerges next to the Monegasque driver. Swallowing his quiet laughter and lifting his eyes, Oscar catches a solemn acrylic swiped in brush strokes over Lando's features. It doesn't seem like he's having the best time in this club either. Which is…strange, to say the least. He knows, from his years of constant internet stalking of the elder, that he's much more of a ‘Fred’ when it comes to clubbing - enjoying it and all.
Does he say something? Is it his place to say something?? They've barely ever spoken. But he looks so unhappy. Oscar just wants to go back to the hotel and take some paracetamol to kill off the headache he can feel beginning to claw at his brain - likely fighting it's way out the depths of hell. Fucking headaches; bitchiest pain there is. A very, disturbingly, deep sigh - Oscar decides there is a right and wrong thing to do here. “Hey, are you alright?”, he taps the toe of his uncomfortable dress shoe against Lando's shin, nothing hard, just enough to startle him from his thoughts. The elder's eyes seem to sparkle under the bright lights of the club, widening in surprise as his eyebrows lift just short of his hairline. “mm..? Oh. Uhm. Yeah, just. Kind of don't wanna be here, mate.” He speaks it more to the open air of the club than to Oscar's face, clearly not wanting his friends to hear. Sitting right to the edge of the booth, Oscar leans forward slightly, past the table, “Me neither. D'you want a drink?”
The gentle smile tugging the corner's of Lando's full lips is worth the thick blush descending on Oscar's cheeks.
--
He feels the weight constricting his spirits loosen as he heads back to the bar, Oscar leading the way in front. They're separated for a moment as a sea of bodies crashes between them, the Brit wriggling and worming his way past sweat soaked skin.
By the time he reaches the bar, Oscar's already ordered and is leaning back against the too-tall stools tucked underneath. “What'd you get?”, Lando asks as he tugs on one of the seats - clambering to perch on the soft cushion as they wait for whatever concoctions Oscar has coming their way. “Uhm… I wasn't sure what you liked but rest assured, we are not leaving this place sober.” The awkward lilt in his accent fades by the end of his sentence; it's sweet, Lando thinks. He smiles down at his chest, unsure of where his current carelessness has come from. There's nothing on his mind besides Oscar's kind gesture to drink himself to death alongside the Brit and the house music the other man seems to be discreetly mouthing along to. Interesting.
Lando doesn't have to wait long to see what's in store for him; watching closely as two shots, two limes and salt are placed before each driver. “Oh. So we're really going for it, huh?” He can't help the widening stretch of his smile as a short chuckle is pushed from Oscar's chest - his eyes scrunching and hair flopping forward as he nods. “Mhm.. You ready?” In lieu of a response, Lando places some salt on the edge of his hand - sticky and salty enough as is where his sweat hugs closely to his skin.
Waiting for the Australian to do the same, the elder driver takes a moment to breathe. He feels so relaxed, the kind he only really reaches after a while of heavy drinking. Yet he's still coasting off that shot from the beginning of the night. Something about Oscar is naturally calming. Even as the dark ink staining his wrist glimpses into view, he can't bring himself to wallow. Instead lifting his glass to clink it against the younger's own. “Cheers!” Both drivers’ faces collapse into tightly wound piles of pain as the tequila burns the backs of the throats. Each rush to swipe their tongues through the salt resting along their hands. Pressing the slice of lime between his teeth, Lando turns to face the man beside him and smiles brightly with the bright green fruit plastered over his teeth. He folds over himself in a fit of giggles as Oscar opens his own grin, showing the same fruit wrapped across his teeth.
They stand by the bar, giggling between themselves until they're interrupted by the two pints of lager placed next to them on the smooth surface they're leaning against for support. A silent agreement passes through the air separating them - each driver picking up their respective pint, opening their throat, and drinking down the bitter liquid as fast as possible. They order several more drinks; downing the vodka shots Oscar had bought earlier as they wait.
Lando didn't think he wanted to drink much tonight. But, maybe he just didn't want to drink alone.
As the two of them slip back into the edge seats of the booth, their friends regard them with amused looks - specifically eyeing the tray full of alcohol as they each sip on their own beers and rums.
Another hour of drinking, and chatting, and giggling later - Daniel is ushering Lando out the door with a bottle of water in hand. The condensation drips along his skin where cold meets burning hot. Walking side by side, Daniel stops them every now and then to hold the bottle to Lando's lips - the other being a bit of a pain about drinking it himself. It almost doubles the length of their walk back to the hotel but honestly, fresh air probably isn't the worst thing for them right now.
As the heavy doors of the elevator slip closed, Lando lifts his head from it's pillow on his teammate's shoulder. “Danny, mate. How‘re you? Like.. how're you doin’?” It's still unbelievably slurred despite the pint of water the Aussie made him drink down on the stroll back. He answers anyway. “Really? Like, really really?” Lando's supporting himself now - improvement - as he tilts his head to meet Daniel's eyes and nods emphatically. The elevator dings loudly, the elder of the two guiding them down the hallway towards Lando's room. He waits to answer until they're each settled into the couch beside the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Letting out a deep, heavy sigh, Daniel decides he might as well be honest. Lando is not giving the impression he's going to remember anything by tomorrow, anyway.
“I'm fuckin shit, mate. Just a lot pilin’ up.” Lando's nodding gently beside him, showing he's listening intently. He watches closely as Daniel starts to gesture wildly alongside his speech. “And, I don't know, it's like - I know I can do better than what I'm doing but there's something that still just won't click and it's all so frustrating.. and they're gonna replace me and it fucking hurts.” Lando turns his body to wrap around his friend, somehow squeezing firm and gentle at the same time. He presses his face into the material of Daniel's t-shirt where it's creased over his upper arm - words muffled into the fabric. “They shouldn't be allowed to do that.. Your contract’s not even up yet.”
Smiling sadly toward the blank wall in front of him, Daniel lifts a tattooed hand and places it atop the mop of curls pushed against his bicep, patting gently. “Yeah, I don't think that's the biggest issue for them, to be honest.” He can hear his own voice dropping slightly, allowing an edge of self-pity to sneak through the cracks. “But, hey! You're having a consistent season, that's something to smile about!” The hand in Lando's hair ruffles from side to side, the sweat-crunchy curls moving in one, bouncy chunk. The Brit moves to rest his cheek against Daniels shoulder. ,“Yeah, m happy where the team is n everythink. Things are looking pretty good trackside, yeah.”
Lando isn't a talker. Not about important things. Yes, it might be a little immoral of Daniel to try this on him when he's completely wasted. But he's worried about his friend, okay?
“What about off track, though? How come you weren't excited earlier when George mentioned finding The One?” A deep, steadying breath, “You never really talk about it anymore, man, it's weird..” He tries to lighten it with a soft chuckle at the end. He's not sure if it worked. “It's nothing, Danny. Just grew up I guess.” Lando's stubborn streak runs deep, it seems. But, they need to have this conversation. His teammate hasn't been right for a while and this feels like it might be his best chance to even begin to understand what's going on. “Mate, come off it.” Daniel moves them, face to face with his hands resting on Lando's shoulders - boxing him in. “For the longest time, all you talked about was how excited you were to finally meet the person you're meant to spend your life with. But now, suddenly, it's like you don't even care anymore?” The Aussie tilts his head slightly, trying to read anything he can from Lando's blank expression.
The younger blinks slowly; a side effect of the alcohol or a chance to stall, Daniel's not sure which. Without meeting the elder's eyes, the Brit finally gives him something to work with. “It's about my soulmate..” The Australian's eyes widen a little - excited he was able to get even this much from the younger. “You know who your soulmate is?” He presses, needing Lando to let him in. He wants to help however he can but it's so difficult when Lando tells him exactly nothing about his feelings. As soon as he gets his answer, he regrets ever even considering asking the question. His voice is small, smaller than Daniel's ever heard it. He doesn't sound like himself as he says it.
"No. That's the problem.” Lando's hand shakes as he pushes his bracelets aside, revealing a defined black circle over his pulse point. Dark and contrasting against the Brit’s skin.
Daniel doesn't know what to say. What can he say? “Fuck.. mate, I'm so sorry. Fuck.” There's nothing he can do to make this better. “Are you, like, are you okay? Why didn't you say?” Lando’s usually bright, ocean eyes are dull and empty. He's staring straight ahead, blank as the wall Daniel was fixed on earlier - the only difference the silent tears building beneath his irises. He takes a deep breath - it's wet and a little snotty through his nose, “Just shit, innit? It was at the club, last year. Woke up with a tattoo and no idea who it was for. One thing that mattered to me more than driving..” He meets Daniel's eyes, the elder half wishing he hadn't. It's as if all the emotion rushes back to him in an instant; a tidal wave of grief crashing in waves across his pinkening cheeks. “And, I don't know, it felt like saying it and telling someone would make it more real?” Daniel breaks as he hears the cracks in Lando's speech, voice still so small.
He wants to say something, Lando can tell. He can see the tears building in his friend's eyes through the clouded filter over his own. A breath, a moment, before pushing through the stabbing pain in his chest. “Wanted to ignore it forever until it just wasn't there anymore. Didn't work.” He swallows the lump in his throat, his next words far too honest to admit to himself - let alone Daniel. “Tonight just kinda made me realise there's nothing I can do. They're gone and I'm not gonna get another chance.”
The flood gates open, Lando covering his scrunched eyes with his large palm. Daniel wraps himself around the smaller man, holding him tight and scrambling to find the words to make this better as Lando shakes and sobs into his chest.
--
After making sure Fred is safely tucked into bed, Oscar makes his way back to his own room. The grin he'd worn at the club still sticks to the corners of his mouth beside the lime juice and alcohol he seems to hold much better than Lando.
Maybe he doesn't always hate clubbing.
Kicking his shoes off and shuffling into the bathroom, Oscar can't believe the evening he's had. He got to drink and laugh and chat with his idol. The guy he's looked up to for years. He hopes he made Lando feel better - he definitely seemed to cheer up after Oscar offered him a drink. He looked so good under the colourful lights of the club where they shone against the heat clinging to his skin.
The Aussie squeezes some toothpaste out of its tube, taking his time to clear his mouth of the bitter alcohol hugging tight to his tongue. The same dopey smile sits under his nose as he strips out of his heat drenched clothes, determined to shower before bed. He feels gross - there's a thick layer of club sweat clinging to every part of him. There's a piece of him that doesn't want to wash it off - doesn't want this night to officially end. It feels like a dream come true, really. If you'd told him a couple years ago - or even last year - that he'd be drinking himself silly with Lando Norris, he'd have started sobbing on the spot.
Hot steam dances into his room through the open bathroom door, the Australian rubbing a towel furiously over his hair in an attempt to dry it before he collapses into the abyss of sleep. He hasn't checked his phone in hours. Picking it up from its spot on the bedside table where he'd plugged it in before showering, he sees several texts and countless missed calls from Mark. He'll get back to him in the morning, it'd be a little inconsiderate to call now - so late. He's too tired to worry about the calls’ potential contents, that's tomorrow’s problem. For now, all he wants to do is curl up and get some rest. He's damn exhausted now that he's washed off the adrenaline; sobered up a little.
He peels back the soft covers, slipping beneath the cool fabric and shifting to find a comfortable spot. Once he's happy, he lets his head rest back into the soft hotel pillows - the smell of detergent hidden by the memory of Lando's cologne.
Oscar lets sleep claim him; a soft smile still dancing across his chapped lips.