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Oscar's palms are laid flat against the tops of his thighs - he's trying, ever-so-discreetly, to wipe away the sweat beginning to pool under them. He's still staring up at his teammate with wide eyes, the elder standing between his legs - tan fingers fighting against unruly, brown waves as he makes every attempt at controlling Oscar's hair. They need to be on the set in only a couple of minutes and Lando decided this was the perfect time to try and tame the stubborn beast that is the floof of hair at the front of Oscar Piastri's head. “It won't stay, mate. Like, it won't, fuckin- ugh.” The mumbles are mostly directed to himself, Oscar notes, as Lando continues to fiddle with individual hairs and place them exactly where he wants them to sit. Someone from the PR team approaches them to let them know they're needed on set in just a moment, Oscar taking Lando's momentary shift in gaze to cause some hair to fall further out of place - he likes having Lando's fingers in his hair, okay? It feels nice.. “How is it worse?? Oscuh your hair is impossible, mate! Hang on,” there's a quiet huff of frustration before the Brit accepts his defeat, actively destroying the neat pile he'd attempted to make with the fluffy mess on Oscar's head. The Australian feels a fluttering in the depths of his stomach as Lando's large hand swoops through his hair, completely messing it up and causing some to fall over Oscar's eyes. He's just.. not used to having people play with his hair. That's all.
A week or so later, the drivers return to their rooms following a tough race and lengthy debrief. As Oscar flops down onto his couch - ready to succumb to a deep sleep before even making it back to the hotel, a curly-haired ray of gloomy sunshine appears in his room. Lando begins strutting and pacing through the younger's space, an irritated stream of consciousness flowing from his plump, heart-shaped lips. Oscar's sleepy mind is struggling to keep up with what's said, but he's trying. As he continues his rant, Lando bends down to pick up some of the team polos strewn across Oscar's floor, subconsciously folding the garments and making neat, little piles on the Aussie's massage table. The elder doesn't seem to stop for breath as he continues to verbally analyse each of their races and dispute the FIA’s calls on other driver's penalties (or lack thereof), all the while tidying dirty socks and gifts from fans off the floor. The longer Lando spends spewing his thoughts and cleaning up after Oscar, the calmer he seems to become - movements slowing, and speech losing the annoyed bite it once held. He's been so absorbed in his thoughts and keeping his hands busy, that he hasn't noticed Oscar's unwavering look of awe as he tracks his movements. The younger driver's eyes are wide and glittering where they glance over the tidy piles of clothes and aesthetically arranged gifts around his room. His stomach does more than flutter - it seems to do a whole, goddamn, backflip. What is so exciting about Lando tidying his room? Answer: Nothing. It just feels.. he's not sure of the word, can't describe it. But it definitely feels and that's probably a bad thing.
A whole day in the simulator following last week's disaster of a race ends in heartbreak. By the time Oscar's able to take a break from his final sim session of the day, the kitchen is closed. Apparently it's some bank holiday or something and that means most staff aren't in. Great. Just as the Aussie is about to turn and leave for the car park, Lando bounds up behind him brandishing two.. interesting(?) looking sandwiches. “Here you go!”, the Brit declares as he pushes a sandwich towards Oscar's open hand. “Where'd you get this? The kitchen’s closed.” He gestures towards the closed shutters of the servery while giving suspicious glances from the sandwich up to Lando's sparkly eyes. “Well yeah, obviously. I made it, you muppet.” Oscar's brows furrow, utter confusion etched into his features; “You.. You made me a sandwich?” Lando rolls his eyes with his entire body - lolling his head to the side dramatically as he replies, “Yes, mate! God, relax, it's not poisoned, Jesus..” There's a slight self-conscious edge to the mumbles Lando trails on the end and Oscar can't have that - can't have Lando thinking the Aussie doesn't completely appreciate this way more than he should, even if that means potentially hinting at how much it really means to him. “No! No, I.. um- Thank you. Really.” The Brit's eyes crease at the edges as his face crumples into a beaming smile, ocean eyes glimmering in the light of the setting sun as it spills through the tall glass windows around them. He's gorgeous. He is beyond words.
The pair make their way to one of several free tables in the near-empty cafeteria, settling in across from one another. It's now that Oscar truly begins examining the sandwich he'd been handed. He really can't tell what he's about to bite into; would rather know beforehand, if he's honest. “ Hey, uh, what's in this, mate?” As he slowly drags his gaze from the confusing brown goop that's squished between two slices of bread, he's met with Lando mid-chew - cheeks bulging and full of whatever concoction he's created. “Nutella and butter.” He says it like it's the most common and natural thing in the world; it warms Oscar's heart - his head tipping down as he chuckles fondly. In the midst of gobbling down their non-trainer-approved, yet surprisingly-delicious sandwiches, Lando pops a Big Question. “What sandwich filling d'you think I'd be?” Oscar's known the other long enough that this kind of thing no longer surprises him, it doesn't make it an easy question to answer though. At first, he considers the obvious of saying ‘Nutella’; sweet, effortlessly smooth, loved by the masses. But then realised Lando really is more than that and his sandwich self should reflect that too. “Probably mayo.” The Brit's brows crease together as an expression stuck somewhere between baffled and offended floats over his sculpted face. Oscar pushes forward, explains himself; “It's adaptable, it goes with everything and everyone. It adds something extra and unique to sandwiches and situations - it enhances the rest of the sandwich as a whole.” There's a pink tint to Oscar's pale skin as he voices his opinions of Lando to the man himself through a thinly veiled metaphor. Lando, at least, has the decency to blush a little himself before speaking - “Alright, mate. Didn't know you were gonna get sappy with it..” There's a feigned bravado to his voice yet the shy smile pasted to his lips gives him away.
“You'd be a tomato. It's kinda subtle but it makes things sweeter and without it things are a lot drier and less interesting and- like, one dimensional n’ boring.” And. Oh. That backflip-heart-thing is back again, though this time it's more like the continuous tumbles and tricks through a whole floor routine. Lando deciding Oscar's a tomato may be a fair assessment, based on the colour of his cheeks at the very least. Oscar needs to regain at least a little control here - not that he really had any to start with. “I think the real question is; What type of sandwich am I?” Yes. Good. Control the conversation, Piastri. His cool exterior is damaged slightly by the ferocious glow of his cheeks and the contrasting swirl of emotions bundled in his stomach. He was a fool to think he was in charge here. “You'd be a sub.” There's a wry, cheeky grin plastered over Lando's lips. The Aussie splutters through a laugh, the pink of his cheeks graduating well past tomato-red. “Wowwww. Lando.” He attempts to fix the other with a stern look, fondness inevitably leaking through. “What? I just meant that you have an unassuming exterior but are filled to the brim with colour and vibrancy; a symphony of layered flavours that blend together to make a deliciously complex sandwich. What did you think I meant, Oscuh?” The smug smile is evident in his voice, clearly pleased with himself for decimating Oscar's grasp on normal behaviour. “You.. You are..” In the end, he just sighs with a warm smile that crinkles his eyes and nose. “Idiot..”