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Chapter Text

The first time Lando met OP81, it wasn't too memorable. All he remembered was some kid—not really, the guy couldn’t have been more than two years younger than Lando—running around the paddock one day, wearing, ugh, gross, an Alpine shirt. Not a fan, since they weren’t allowed in this area, so he had to belong here at least. A quick glance at his shirt confirmed that he was a reserve driver. 

In any other situation, Lando would have waved and kept walking, uninterested in dealing with a gushing reserve driver who might be able to touch the car once in the season. But this time, something caught Lando’s eye. The boy was wearing a black balaclava and sunglasses, completely obscuring his face and leaving everything to the imagination. He waved a quick hand towards Lando before continuing his brisk walk in the direction of Alpine hospitality, evidently late for something but too polite to pretend he didn’t notice Lando, the only other person in the area. 

Lando craned his neck to stare at the retreating figure, before he pushed his hands into his pockets and kept walking in the other direction. He sighed. Of course, the kid must be another Max-Verstappen-wannabe. The current world champion had gained notoriety for a similar strategy of obscuring his face and identity until he had won his first world championship. Lando snorted at the idea. If that kid was wearing that as a reserve driver, he better get used to the feeling of fabric on his face, because it wasn’t going to be coming off any time soon. Especially if the way Max was performing this season was an idea of things to come. 

And so his thoughts were quickly pulled away by imaginings of strategy for Sunday and contemplating what results he and Daniel were going to be able to pull out of the car with their less than ideal qualifying, whether it would be enough to beat Alpine and reclaim fourth in the Constructor’s Championship. 

So imagine his surprise when a year later, it was announced that balaclava boy was going to be his future teammate. 

He was called “OP81.” A bit pretentious, if you asked the Brit. Real full of himself, to not even give his name. Though, when he looked at his young teammate’s CV with the smallest hint of jealousy, he couldn’t help but think that maybe the pretentiousness was a bit earned. Now serving as the youngest driver on the grid, OP came with a series of hard-won victories, being one of a handful of drivers to ever win the F3 and F2 championships in consecutive years and the first driver to ever win 3 F1 feeder series in consecutive years. Drivers and media praised his level-headed attitude towards racing and already labeled him as a future world champion. 

All without even knowing his real name or what he looked like. 

From what Lando had been told, “OP” hadn’t shown his face once during his entire junior racing career, nor given anyone his full name apart from the higher-ups who needed to know for legal reasons. And, of course, because of how much potential he’d shown so early on, the press was absolutely eating it up. 

Lando sneered slightly at the paper. It didn’t matter how much potential this “OP” had shown in the past. He was entering Lando’s territory now and all the junior racing trophies in the world can’t beat four years of driving an F1 car. When push came to shove and his teammate jumped in the car for the first time, then they’d see how much potential he really had. 

He told as much to Max. 

“My new teammate is proper copying your shtick,” Lando complained on the phone as he packed a suitcase in his apartment in Monaco. It was the day before he was set to officially meet OP81 at the MTC and he had a flight to the UK to catch in 2 hours. “He’s got the whole ‘unnamed and unseen’ thing going on for him. What a prick!” 

Max scoffed lightly over the phone, obviously distracted by his game if the sound of keyboard mashing and rapid clicking was anything to go by. “Mate, you haven’t even met him yet, how could you possibly know what he’s like? For all you know, he could be lovely.”

“Yeah, like how lovely you were when you first joined F1, Mr. MV33?” Lando scowled, throwing a pair of trousers that smelled clean enough into the case. He was only going for a few days, after all. 

Max barked out a laugh at that, before saying, “Okay, maybe not like me. But you can’t blame the guy for making a goal we all have into something tangible. For me, it was a good reminder of what I was doing this all for, maybe it’s something similar for him.” 

Lando grunted as he zipped the suitcase shut. “Doesn’t mean I have to like him, or that he’s not a pretentious arsehole.” 

“Guess you’ll just have to—oh son of a bitch—” Spamming clicks and loud keystrokes took over for a minute before Max continued. “Guess you’ll just have to find out tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Lando groaned, before dragging himself out of his flat. “Thanks for nothing,” he said as he hung up to a cackling Max in the background. 

And as he boarded the plane, despite what Max had said, all he could do was grumble mentally about what a cunt his teammate was going to be. 

So of course, when he actually sat down in Zak’s office and stuck a hand out to properly meet OP81 for the first time, he felt like an absolute piece of shit. 

The younger man stood up from his seat and, of course, he had to be taller than Lando. Still adorned in the black balaclava and sunglasses that Lando had seen a year ago—though now with a papaya colored hoodie instead of an Alpine shirt—he met Lando’s grip firmly and shyly announced that he was glad to be joining F1 with a teammate like Lando, someone who could help him try and adjust to the constant pressure of the team, the media, and the car. 

He seemed so genuine and Lando wanted to curse because Max, stupid Max, had been right. And as Lando stumbled through his own responses about how he was also looking forward to the season, he came to the terrible realization that OP also had one of the cutest accents Lando had ever heard. Sure, Daniel was also an Aussie, but the two sounded different in a way that Lando couldn’t verbalize. Perhaps they were born in different parts of Australia, or maybe the contrast between their personalities made it much more apparent. Either way, Lando was obsessed. 

With introductions out of the way, Zak decided that a tour of the MTC was due, so OP followed Zak out of the room first, Lando trailing behind. He stared intently at the back of OP’s head, trying to imagine what he looked like. Perhaps a little too hard, because the other man slowed to let Lando catch up before sighing and saying, “Go ahead and ask, I know you want to.” 

Lando fidgeted for a bit, debating if he was being genuine before deciding fuck it. 

“Can I ask just… why?” 

OP shrugged. “I wanted to. Seemed like a good idea when I joined the junior categories and now it’s just kind of become a thing. So might as well keep it going until I win the world championship, I guess.” 

Lando sneered a bit internally. How arrogant of him, to say it like it was a simple fact of the matter that he was going to win a world championship. Though, a tiny voice whispered in Lando’s head, it’s not like he was much better his rookie season, or even now. You didn’t get this far into this extreme of a sport without some ego, after all. 

Externally he said, “Ah, I see. So kind of like what Max did, yeah?” 

OP gave a noise of affirmation and seemed like he was going to start speaking before he was interrupted by Zak pausing. They both turned to pay attention to their team principal rambling on about the facilities some more before they continued walking and Lando took advantage of the moment to keep digging. 

“So, ‘OP’, huh? If you’re doing what Max did, then I’m assuming those are your initials,” Lando questioned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. 

Lando could feel the other man’s wary eyes on him. “Yes,” he answered tentatively. 

So Lando being the little shit he was, immediately said, “Can I guess your name?” 

OP heaved out a long-suffering sigh. “You’d hardly be the first to try.” 

“Hmm. Okay. Oliver?” 

No response. 

“Owen? Orion? Oscar? God, don’t tell me it’s something like Orlando.” 

He actually laughed at that last one. Reaching up to adjust his sunglasses slightly, he said, “No. I promise that it’s nowhere near as offensive as that last one. That being said, even if you do get it, I’m not telling you.” 

Naturally, that only ignited a fire for Lando to keep pushing for more. He’d always been a little greedy, after all. But after only another two minutes of guessing names, he gave up. There were only so many “O” names that he could come up with, and OP was a brick wall. 

They spent the rest of the tour chatting about whatever popped into their heads, with Lando fighting for as many minute details about the man next to him as possible. Though, Lando had to concede that years of doing this had very clearly trained OP into giving away literally nothing about him that could be used to trace back his identity.

"Where are you from?"

"Melbourne."

"What karting teams?" 

"Oh, you know. Australian ones, European ones. The works." 

"Any family?" 

"A few siblings, yeah." 

"Where'd you go to school?"

"Boarding school in the UK. Moved there to focus on racing." 

After they finished the tour, Lando flopped onto one of the many couches scattered around the MTC, OP sitting politely next to him, still seemingly in awe of everything around him. 

“Fine,” Lando announced. “If you’re not going to tell me, despite me obviously being the most handsome, charming teammate to ever grace your presence, I guess I’ll just have to call you P for now, because ‘OP’ sounds stupid and I’m not calling you a number.” 

A small scoff escaped at that. “Wow, thanks for shitting on my brand of the past seven years,” he deadpanned. 

“No problem, P.” 

The next hour flew past in a flurry of handshakes and posing for cameras, with the latter part being mostly Lando, as there was only so much content the team could milk out of an emotionless balaclava and sunglasses, at least for photos. And just like that, with a final handshake goodbye and a promise to see him for preseason testing, his first meeting with OP81 was over.

As Lando drove back to the hotel McLaren had set him up in for the night before he flew back to Monaco, he found that he couldn’t get P off of his mind. Maybe his sisters were on to something when they claimed that those anonymous biker accounts on Instagram were hot. He’d tried arguing back that how could they possibly know someone was attractive if they had no idea what the person looked like, but they shot him down and told him that the appeal was the mystery, all locked behind a helmet. 

They also made sure to emphasize that the same logic did not apply to most of the F1 grid, especially Lando, since they were so regularly showing their faces. 

Once inside the room, he toed his shoes off and flopped into the bed, digging through his pockets to find his phone and call Max. 

“Max,” he whined as soon as the other driver picked up the phone, “He wouldn’t tell me his name!” 

And Max just roared with laughter in response. “Yeah, no shit Lando, of course he wouldn’t tell you. It was your first meeting with him. I didn’t even tell Daniel until after he left Red Bull and he is one of my best friends. Hell, Charles didn’t know until after he joined Ferrari and he’s known me since we were eight!” 

“Yeah, but I’m me.” Lando pouted up at the ceiling, eagle spread on the bed. 

“And by ‘you’ I’m guessing you bothered him incessantly the entire time?” 

Lando didn’t answer. 

“I’m going to take that a yes. Besides, Lando, he’s dedicated enough time and gotten to a point where you aren’t going to sway him. Not yet, at least.” 

The British driver groaned in frustrated defeat. “How did Charles and Daniel manage to convince you before you won the world championship?” 

Max snorted. “Well for one, they didn’t bother me all the time by immediately bombarding me with questions.” A stifled, gasping, very-clearly-not-Max's laugh followed those words.

“Is Charles with you?” Lando asked, already knowing the answer. 

Some rustling made its way through the speaker like they were adjusting sheets before the Monégasque spoke. “Hi, Lando,” he said, completely shameless about his eavesdropping. 

“Hi Charles,” Lando sighed. “I’m guessing you heard all of that?” 

“Yes, and Max had just finished telling me about how earlier you were unhappy with OP before you even met him.” 

Ugh. Max. What a blabbermouth. 

He told Max and Charles as much, with the latter laughing at his boyfriend. “Lando, you should know this by now, what Max knows, I know.” 

It was unfortunately true. 

Max jumped back in before Lando could sulk anymore. 

“Look, Lando, it just takes time, learning to trust someone with information like that, especially after hiding it for so long,” he explained. “So just start by showing him that you are someone he can trust. That’s what Charles and Daniel did for me, after all.” 

Lando let out a long exhale at the words. He knew that Max was right, but as usual, that didn’t mean he had to like it. 

“You both suck,” he finally announced. “But thanks for listening. I’ll see you guys at testing.” 

They said their goodbyes and Lando hung up, staring at the swirling patterns of texture on the ceiling. His thoughts drifted to the Aussie once again, letting his imagination about what he could look like run wild. He imagined all sorts of different people, wondering (and hoping) that maybe one of the faces he came up with in his dreams was close enough to reality.

And as he started to fall asleep, he made a mental checklist of things he wanted to accomplish with OP. 

1. See any part of his face
2. Get his name
3. See his full face (before anyone else)

Should be easy enough. P seemed like such a softie after all. 

Chapter Text

It was a month into the season that Lando discovered that he couldn’t have been more wrong. Behind that cute accent and innocent voice, there lay coiled a sarcastic and witty little shit. He’d known P had to have a competitive streak of some kind, but it was so well hidden behind the mild-mannered mask he wore most of the time. 

So of course, one night, he called up Carlos and the two spent the night together, drinking far more than they should and complaining about things that Lando had no memory of the next morning. It was more than likely that it was about P and his snarky little attitude, but if he had no memory of it, it couldn’t have been that important. 

As the season progressed and P became more comfortable on camera and settled more into his role, he ended up filming more and more videos. Fans ate up the individual videos that P did, like his first day at McLaren and Google’s most searched questions, so the only natural next step was for Charlotte to suggest that P and Lando film a few videos together, and they were the perfect opportunity for P to demonstrate just how annoying he could be. 

The first one was nothing big or flashy, just the two drivers sitting in a secluded room hidden in the back of the paddock. As the cameras were set up and Lando was fawned over by makeup artists, they were told that the video would be them taking the British Driving Theory test. 

Lando felt a small swoop in his stomach at the announcement. It wasn’t like it was scary or anything. Hell, he drove at 250 kilometers an hour on the weekly. However, the first time he’d taken his theory test, he’d failed, so he didn’t exactly have the fondest memories of the test. 

He’d never been good at tests. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the answers, he just got into his own head and ended up convincing himself that the right answer was wrong. Because technically the other answer he’d ended up choosing was right, it just wasn’t most right. Stupid driving test. 

Plus, he hadn’t looked at the stupid handbook in literal years, so god knows how much he actually remembered. But, he told himself confidently, he had to at least know a bit more than his teammate. Lando was the Brit, after all. 

Yet as they started filming, Lando got the sinking feeling that he couldn’t have been more wrong. The first question had Lando pausing and looking at P for the answer. Lando glanced back at the screen. He curled a hand over his mouth, a slightly embarrassed smile crinkling his eyes as P reasoned through the question. 

“Mmm, well it’s obviously not putting on the parking brake… so B?” P asked, his sunglasses fixed intently at the tablet in Lando’s hand. “Like… D doesn’t make any sense because it’s their job to make room behind you and to ‘the left side of the road’... well you just drive in the middle. So. B.” He glanced up at the man with the questions, and was rewarded with a “Yes, correct.” P pumped his fist in celebration as Lando let out a strained laugh. 

“Number two!” Lando announced, wanting to move on as quickly as possible. 

Both drivers got more into it with each query, graduating from answering the question to slapping the table, Lando with his hand, P with a rather redundant McLaren hat that had been handed to him at the beginning of the video, despite his balaclava covering every inch of his hair. 

“How did you get that one!” Lando demanded. “Weird, mate.” 

“It’s cause I know how to drive! That’s literally our job!” P laughed back, whacking the table with his hat again for emphasis. 

And— god, P had to stop laughing at every single thing that Lando said because it was driving him insane. He could feel P’s heavy gaze on him every time he opened his mouth and was two seconds away from losing it at the full-body giggle that overtook the younger man whenever Lando said anything remotely funny. Whether he adored it or hated it was not something that Lando wanted to analyze at the moment. 

“Question four! ‘A child passenger is in your car—’” Lando announced, then paused, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked at the question. “Who writes this stuff? It’s not even Englis— British— English.”

P leaned forward to take a look at the tablet. “There’s no ‘is’!” he said and Lando could hear the smile on his words as the other man gestured at the screen. “It’s just ‘in your car’.” 

“Oh.” Lando rubbed a hand on his chin. “‘A child passenger is in your car—”

And P completely lost it. He keeled over as his voice entered a new octave. “You said it again,” he wheezed out, throwing his hands up in a helpless gesture that clearly meant “oh my god”. 

“I’m saying ‘is’?” 

“Yes!” 

Wee woo, here comes the grammar police, Lando scowled internally, but kept a tight smile on his face. He firmly ignored how his stomach had flipped pleasantly at the sound and sight of P laughing. Little arsehole.  

Apparently Lando’s body had decided, without his brain’s consent, that it really liked making P laugh. Maybe it was an effect of never showing his face on camera and making up for it with other movements, but all of his emotions were shown with his body, especially when he lost it and he folded in half or threw back his head cackling. It was entrancing. 

No, it isn’t, Lando firmly corrected his brain. You’re just thinking that because he’s all mysterious ‘n’ shit. Like the bikers. 

“‘A child passenger in your car—’” Lando tried again. 

“There you go,” P praised. 

And if anybody asked Lando if he paused for a second, definitely not to will down the blush that threatened to color his cheeks at those words, he would never admit it. He was supposed to be the senior teammate and senior teammates like Lando Norris absolutely did not blush. 

As the questions progressed, Lando finally got a few right and noticed that P’s hands flew around him too. They were rather reserved compared to Lando, but still nonetheless there for emphasis. And for smacking a hat on the table as he answered yet another question. 

Nerd, Lando sniffed mentally. 

But even with his annoyance mounting, he couldn’t stop noticing every movement his teammate made, no matter how much he kept his eyes glued to the tablet. 

The one that caught his eye the most was when Lando would catch P making a move towards his head like he was going to sweep his hair back, but the hand would stutter on the way there and adjust his sunglasses instead. Distractedly, Lando wondered for half a second what his hair must feel like. 

He banished that thought immediately, turning his attention to the last few questions. He got the eighth right, but P claimed the ninth. It didn’t really matter who got the last point since P was so far ahead, but Lando’s competitive streak wouldn’t let him go down without a fight. 

As Lando confidently answered the last question, thankfully getting it right, his pride spoke up and he said, “That’s it. You’re only as good as your last question.”

P shot back and deadpanned, “What are the scores? Can we run the scores?” 

What a little shit, Lando thought fondly through the frustration. No, not fondly, he told himself. Angry. Annoyed. Yep. Those were the proper emotions when being schooled by a man two years younger than you. He could almost imagine the smirk P had underneath the mask. 

The producer announced it was 7-3, P. Not that Lando was surprised by the results, but it still stung a little to hear them. He wanted to scowl but a quick glance behind the camera at Charlotte’s face warned him not to. Instead, he turned back to P, holding out a hand and begrudgingly saying, “Well done, mate.” 

What Charlotte couldn’t quite stop, though, was the snippy little, “I hope you’re happy” that slipped out right after. 

But instead of getting a reaction like he wanted, P just laughed and gladly took the proffered hand. Lando just knew that P had to know what he wanted and was purposely being an arsehole about it. 

They wrapped up the video and Lando immediately slipped away to sulk in his driver’s room. From that moment on, he vowed he was ending this weird curiosity about P right now. Who even cared what his stupid face might look like? 

o-o-o

Except Lando had always been shit at keeping his promises and still very much cared about what his teammate’s stupid face might look like. 

Now four races into the season and coming up on the fifth in Miami, his fascination with P hadn’t waned in the slightest. It only seemed to have grown, with Lando picking up more tics and idiosyncrasies about the younger man.

He adjusted his sunglasses whenever he got nervous and tilted his whole head to express confusion. He loved sleep almost as much as he loved racing and was absolutely not a morning person, if his deflated posture each time they had a meeting at six in the morning was anything to go by. He sunbathed like a cat whenever they had free time and he really liked house music. 

In short, he was not helping Lando stop obsessing over him at all. What a bastard. 

In fact, it seemed like he was actively trying to make it worse. 

Instead of being some insufferable, arrogant cunt like Lando expected, P was such a sweet guy. Yes, he was a smart-ass and had the most infuriating deadpan thanks to his stupid sunglasses and stupid mask, but at the same time, he was never cruel. P would simply deal back what he got dealt by Lando and never escalated into superiority. 

It was refreshing to have a teammate that didn’t make him feel like an inexperienced idiot. As much as he loved having Carlos and Daniel as teammates, they were five and ten years older than him, respectively, and there were a lot of times that he was treated like their annoying baby brother. 

But P never made him feel that way. It was clear that he saw Lando as his equal, but still respected the fact that he was a rookie and Lando had five more years of F1 experience than him. 

He’d follow Lando around in the paddock and in the MTC like a lost duckling, quietly hanging back until Lando deigned to introduce him to whoever he was talking to. It was adorable embarrassing, really, especially when Lando could hear how starstruck P was whenever he met one of the drivers, like Lewis or Fernando. His voice would get a little breathy and he kept his arms stiff and pinned to his body, fists clenched and elbows locked like he was fighting the urge to fidget with his hands. 

And if it gave Lando a surge of satisfaction every time he saw his supposedly unshakable teammate get flustered, that knowledge was between him and God. 

So of course, just when he thought his weird fascination with P had reached its peak, it only went higher.

When Charlotte briefed Lando on what the newest challenge video was going to be, he didn’t think much of it. Ask each other a few pre-prepared questions, shock each other if they lied, and be as charming as possible. Got it. 

What he didn’t expect, however, was P to walk into the random backroom of the MTC they were using as the filming area, complain that it was too dark to see, and whip off his sunglasses like it was nothing. 

“Heart attack” wasn’t a strong enough phrase to describe the strength at which Lando’s heart jumped in his chest at the sight of his teammate’s unveiled eyes. He was staring, he knew he was staring, but he couldn’t look away. 

And when P actually met his gaze, Lando thought he would pass away on the spot (which was a completely normal, non-interested reaction, he reasoned later). Long eyelashes framed tired eyes that held deep, warm pools of dark brown. Little beauty marks and moles were scattered near both eyes and as Lando watched, they crinkled as P smiled, forming deep lines around his eyes that swallowed the marks. 

Fuck. 

Lando swallowed hard. 

“Hey P,” he finally managed. “Ready for the video?” 

The laughter lines didn’t flatten as P nodded, taking his seat across Lando at the rickety table someone dug out of a forgotten closet just for this video. 

“Cool,” Lando rasped out, his throat suddenly very dry. He took his own seat and cleared his throat. The camera crew shouted a countdown and they were off. Lando turned on every ounce of charm he had and thanked Charlotte for all those hours of media training, since it meant that he was able to launch into the intro and pretend that, no, of course his mysterious teammate hadn’t just shown him his eyes. Nope, everything was just dandy right now and let’s jump straight into this challenge! 

Fucking fuckity fuck. 

Two questions in to the challenge, Lando thought he was going to explode from how much eye contact P made. Lando had felt P’s eyes on him every time they filmed before this, but there was a massive difference between glancing up to see reflective plastic and looking up to a pair of eyes intently staring at him like he was the most important thing in the universe. Eyes that squeezed closed whenever P grinned and continued etching visible reminders of his joy into his skin. It did not ignite butterflies in his stomach, thank you very much. 

“Do you think you’re the best driver on the grid?” Lando asked, his gaze flicking rapidly between the hand-held “lie detector machine” that was probably just randomized to shock people every once in a while and P’s face. Each time he did, he noticed that P’s eyes always stayed focused on him. He pretended that it didn’t do anything to him. 

“The best driver on the grid?” P repeated as his gaze finally broke to briefly look over Lando’s right shoulder. It returned back to Lando as he said, “I think yes, everyone has to think they’re the best.” 

“Okay, mate.” 

They both stopped to look at the machine. The whirring stopped and it buzzed, but no shock came. 

“Bruh,” Lando complained, looking back at the filming crew as if it was their fault. He knew that P was right, but for now? Getting annoyed was necessary ammo that Lando could fire at the growing thing in his chest. It gained an unfair advantage when P revealed his eyes, flaring higher faster than Lando could have expected, so he needed something to try and douse it. 

What a dickhead. So full of himself.

Of course it wasn’t true, but Lando was fighting tooth and claw here, okay? He’d take what he could get. Now that he was incrementally more relaxed, convinced he had the fire under control, he leaned into the banter. They both laughed when the other got shocked, mostly at the small shriek of pain that escaped their throats. 

Once they’d made it through enough of the PR-approved questions and finished the outro, Lando wondered how much he could truly get away with learning today. P seemed to be answering honestly enough despite the machine probably being bullshit. 

“Who’s your best friend in F1?” he decided to ask as the team was packing up around them. 

P paused for a second, the machine whooping in the background, and tilted his head. “No friends, only enemies,” he said at last, only to yelp a second later as the machine punished him. 

Lando cackled. “Come on, mate, tell the truth! You know this machine is foolproof.” 

The younger man rolled his eyes (Lando’s breath did not hitch at the movement) before dropping his head to his arm and groaning. He propped his chin on top of his arm a second later and admitted, “Fine, it’s Logan.” 

He then looked fearfully down at the whirring pain distributor before it dinged and turned green. 

“Oh?” Lando raised an eyebrow at P who ducked his head back into his arm. 

“Yeah,” he explained, before sitting back up. “We’ve known each other since our karting days. I think he’s probably one of the only people I keep in contact with these days that knows what I look like since that was before I turned anonymous.” 

Lando felt himself tense. So the American knew what P looked like before his own teammate? He tried to hide the frown forming on his face. From the P’s glance down to his lips, he evidently failed. 

“It’s nothing personal,” P backtracked, clearly nervous that he might’ve offended Lando. “Like I said, he’s just known me from before I started the whole faceless thing, and I can’t really erase his memories of what I look like.” 

Which. Was fair. But at the same time, it did nothing to quell the green monster rearing in his chest that was crying out at the fact that Lando wasn’t first. 

It was a weird feeling to have, especially about someone only he had a professional curiosity about and had only known for a handful of months, so he stamped it down and forced a smile on his face. 

P rambled on, "Aside from him, nobody else knows except Zak and a few of the higher-ups—"

“Nah, mate, don’t apologize," Lando interrupted. "I’m sure it’s nice having at least someone who knows what you look like.” He shot a sly glance at P and the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Maybe I should befriend him instead and he can tell me if you’re cute or not.” 

Well. Fuck. So much for professional. Curse his tongue for being able to move faster than his brain. 

Though this time he wasn’t sure how much anger he could muster towards his lack of filter because the brilliant flush that spread around P’s eyes made it completely worth it. 

Any and all attempts Lando had made at controlling the blaze in his chest crumbled at the color on his teammate’s cheeks. And as he grinned, broad and proud, at the reaction he elicited, he finally let the truth bleed in. 

Fuck it all. He had a crush on his faceless teammate.

Lando Norris’ Checklist

1. See any part of his face
2. Get his name
3. See his full face (before anyone else)
4. Kiss my rookie fucking teammate

Chapter Text

As much as Lando wanted to work on checking off more items on his list, he had much more pressing issues to focus his attention on. The main attraction, of course, was the absolute abysmal results they’d produced as a team so far. 

Lando sighed as he clambered out of the car. Canada had not proven kind to either driver, despite the overwhelming friendliness of the natives. They’d started decently, with P qualifying P9 but starting P8 after Carlos’ 3-place grid penalty and Lando qualifying P7. 

He’d dropped a place by the end of the race, crossing the line at P8 after chasing Alex for 7th, and P fighting Pierre for P12. But because of some stupid 5-second penalty and the train of four other drivers that were on his ass up until the end, he dropped out of the points down to P13 and pushed P up to P11. 

So. Yeah. Not quite the results he or the team were looking for. 

It was hard not to be bitter, especially as he looked up at the numerous screens all around the grandstands and watched Max cross the line. Again. Eight races into the season and the man had already claimed six wins. The other two races? Second place. Each win pushed the Dutchman further and further ahead in the championship standings and Lando wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t jealous of Red Bull’s success. 

He made his way towards the scale, just wanting to get this over with so he could leave. There shouldn’t be many media duties since neither of he or P had finished high enough for too many reporters to take interest, but they still needed to debrief as a team. Lando groaned a little internally at the thought of another torturous two hours of sitting in a stuffy room as more engineers and strategists and whoever the fuck else sat in those meetings analyzed every inch of every lap they completed, making sure to thoroughly criticize each mistake they found. 

As he waited in line behind Pierre, his gaze drifted around the paddock and landed on P laughing with Logan in the McLaren garage. P was leaning against the wall, Logan standing in front and gesturing animatedly about something as mechanics bustled around them. He was too far to hear what they were talking about, but the American didn’t seem too disappointed by his DNF if the enthusiasm in his movements was anything to go by.

P had taken off his helmet already but remained in his standard balaclava, like he did every post-race; however, he was sans the sunglasses. 

It was only a few races ago in Monaco that P started removing his sunglasses in the paddock, an event that had seemingly exploded the brains of every McLaren fan. Lando remembered seeing the clips on Twitter (he refused to call it X) after the race. 

Though it couldn’t even compare to the insanity generated by the footage captured at the next race. 

Usually P went to his driver’s room to slip off his helmet and swap his sweaty balaclava for a new one before interviews, so the camera was set up outside his room to catch the rookie leaving. As it panned over, viewers saw P glance up to see the camera, his eyes widened a bit in surprise. But they quickly scrunched shut, evidently smiling beneath the black fabric as he gave a little wave and ducked his head, then showed a thumbs up to the lens. 

The comments had been feral, with countless people posting all-caps tweets about how it felt illegal to see P’s eyes, how cute his eyes were, and even a few about how babygirl he seemed with the wave. 

Lando wasn’t too surprised about the responses. He’d gotten a taste of what they might look like after the lie detector video. Even though the editors had blurred P’s eyes at his behest, the simple idea that P’s eyes had been seen by Lando was still enough for all of the viewers to lose their collective shit. 

And in all honesty, Lando was going to lose his shit if the weighing took much longer. Stupid FIA regulations, keeping him from talking to P. It’d been a whole five minutes since he got out of the car, when was he going to be able to say hello? 

He glowered at Logan and P, though it was mostly the former, as the American once again said something that made P’s body vibrate with laughter. 

Everything about them spoke of familiarity and comfort that only years of friendship could beget. From the way that Logan easily made his way into P’s personal space, showing him something on his phone while slinging a casual arm around his shoulders, to P bumping his own shoulder against Logan’s after the American slid off, throwing back his head at something the American said. 

“Mr. Norris?” a voice broke through his thoughts. He glanced up to see the expectant and unimpressed face of an FIA member waiting for him to get on. 

“Ah, sorry,” he said sheepishly, stepping onto the scale. The attendant gave him a weird look but said nothing else, turning their eyes down to the screen to read the data popping up. 

And as his eyes moved back to Logan and P, he saw the two of them share a quick hug before Logan left for the Williams garage. He swallowed hard at the burning frustration that bubbled up in his throat. It stung of unwarranted anger and unprovoked jealousy towards the American. 

He knew how idiotic it was, to get mad at someone for simply knowing P, logic had never dictated Lando in the first 23 years of his life and it sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. 

P had struck up a conversation with one of the engineers and slowly started making his way towards the McLaren hospitality where interviewers and the debrief awaited. Lando fought the urge to fidget on the scale, knowing that it would only delay the completion. He did his best not to shift from side to side and as soon as the attendant gave him the thumbs up, he beelined towards P, pulling his helmet off and calling out to his teammate.

“Hey, P!” he yelled, jogging over. “Wait up!” 

To Lando’s utter delight, P immediately ceased his conversation with the engineer and lit up as Lando bounded towards him. 

He waited patiently until Lando caught up before both men made their way towards McLaren hospitality.

“Mate,” Lando started, the hand not holding his helmet stretching above his head, “that race was literal dogshit.” 

P let out a noise of agreement and shrugged. “Could’ve been worse, mate. And you can’t deny that the sprint to the end was a little exciting.”

“Yeah, it was exciting while I was still P8 and didn’t have a five second penalty,” Lando huffed, dropping his arm back down to his side. “You should be thanking me, though, since I pushed you up a place.” 

“Ah, yes, into the highly esteemed and coveted P11,” P snorted. “God, Logan gave me so much shit for that.” 

Before Lando could stop himself and clamp down the fiery burst of jealousy that sprung up in his chest, he blurted out, “Oh yeah, your best friend, Logan.”

Lando stared pointedly at the ground, refusing to make eye contact with P, even though he could feel the other man’s eyeing him. 

“Mate, we’ve already been through this,” P sighed. “Why are you even so obsessed with the fact that he knows what I look like?”

Because I wanted to be the first one to see it, was Lando’s immediate thought. Because I wanted to be the one you trusted to show your face to, the one who broke through all the barriers. 

Because I wanted to be your Charles. 

But of course he couldn’t say all that, so he just shrugged. 

They continued walking in awkward silence before they got to McLaren hospitality and split off to take their own interviews. Lando slapped a smile on his face as usual, spouting some PR-instilled words about it just wasn’t their weekend, but they looked forward to fighting in the next few races, especially in a few weeks when they finally got the upgrades they’d been waiting all season for. He nodded politely at each question, answered some more than stupid ones (like, yeah, duh, of course he wasn’t happy about the penalty that pushed him outside of the points), and was finally released. 

He started for his driver’s room, then realized that P was still chatting to a media person. Lando shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, debating whether or not to wait for the Aussie. Normally they’d walk together to their driver’s rooms, change out of their fireproofs, then walk to the post-race debrief together. 

But after the conversation they’d had prior to this, all Lando wanted to do was run. So he did. And as he turned away to head to his room alone, he missed P’s eyes flicking to him and the flash of hurt that they held. 

o-o-o

The debrief, as usual, was long and critical, with engineers talking in circles about issues P and Lando had first-hand knowledge about since they were the ones in the car and experiencing those issues every damn weekend. As yet another person prattled on about how this was just a stepping stone in the journey to better results, he found himself zoning out, chin resting on his hand. 

P sat across the table from him, head turned to face the man talking at the front of the room. Just like when P revealed his eyes for the first time, Lando couldn’t stop staring at his side profile, imagining the lines of his neck and the shape of his lips. 

He idly wondered what P’s smile would look like. Would he grin broad and wide like Daniel? Or more reserved and tight-lipped? He certainly scrunched his eyes enough to be reminiscent of Daniel, but the rest of his personality made it hard to judge. 

“-ando?” an engineer asked. 

Lando jerked in his seat and turned towards the head of the table as he was yanked away from his thoughts and back into the present. 

“Uh, sorry, mate, could you repeat that?” Lando asked, rubbing the back of his neck with an embarrassed grin. The man let out a long-suffering sigh before acquiescing. 

“Do you think,” he said slowly, like he thought Lando was stupid, “that we can fight for better places with the incoming upgrades?”

Lando glowered at the man. “I dunno, haven’t driven the car yet with them. Can’t help but wonder why that is, or why the car wasn’t competitive coming into the season, yeah? ” 

A quiet snort came from across the table. Lando looked away from the engineer’s reddening face to see P’s creased eyes betraying the fact that he was the source of the sound. That sight alone was enough to make Lando drone out whatever excuses the engineer spluttered out.

With Lando effectively killing the meeting, they wrapped it up a few minutes later. 

The ridiculed engineer shot a glare at Lando as he hurried out, an expression that Lando returned. Arsehole. 

“Mate, you were brave for that,” P slid up next to him, a disbelieving tone in his voice. “Killing someone’s superiority complex like that in front of all his coworkers? Max himself couldn’t have done it better.” 

Lando snorted as they started walking to the cars. “Yeah, it’s a hell of a lot easier when you’ve been here for five years, dealing with this shit.” 

Sympathy clouded P’s eyes. “I’m sorry they do that to you,” he said sincerely. “You don’t deserve that.” 

“It’s cause they all think I’m stupid,” Lando shook his head. “Didn’t even do my GCSEs. But it’s not like that should matter, I mean, I can still drive the car! What’s it matter that I can’t spell chras- chrysend—” 

“Chrysanthemum?” P offered. 

“Yes, the stupid flower!” They’d reached the chauffeur, Lando climbing in first with P following close behind. The ride back to the hotel and the elevator trip afterward was mostly spent chatting about random thoughts from the race, future hopes for the season, and the odd four minutes spent discussing what ice cream flavor each driver would be. 

Once they reached their floor and stood outside of their rooms, P unlocked his door and pushed it open, but hesitated in the doorway. 

“If it matters,” P murmured, pulling Lando’s attention away from where he was digging through his backpack for his key, “I don’t think you’re stupid at all.” 

Then he slipped into his room and closed the door, as if he hadn’t just made Lando’s stomach erupt into butterflies with the simplest of affirmations. He stood outside his door for another minute, blinking at the space where P used to be with one hand still shoved into the pocket of his backpack. It wasn’t until the elevator dinged down the hall that he moved again, fishing out his keycard.

He managed to get inside, toe off his shoes, and collapse facedown onto the bed, fighting the urge to scream. The cause of those emotions was less than five feet away from him through the wall and would probably be more than concerned about his teammate’s sanity if he heard Lando screeching, so the only logical thing to do was text Max and see if he was going out tonight. 

The Dutchman, ever quick to respond, sent him an address and a text encouraging him to invite P as well. Lando rolled his eyes at his phone, but did send a quick message to P, asking him if he wanted to come. As Lando predicted, the Aussie politely declined and told him to have fun and stay safe. Lando sent a thumbs up back, slightly relieved. 

He didn’t know if he could’ve coped with seeing P in a nightclub, drunk and sweaty and flushed, probably talking up some girl by the end of the night, then sliding away to a secluded corner where she would pull off his mask and— 

Lando put a hard stop to those thoughts before they could progress any further. He scolded himself for having such thoughts, because this was P. His sweet, sassy, rookie teammate who had also managed to fluster Lando in less than fifteen words. 

As he changed, he firmly reminded himself that tonight was not about obsessing over P. It was about, for once, getting P out of his head. 

o-o-o

Lando succeeded at his previously set mission for a good hour. He’d gotten there just as the rest of the drivers were claiming a booth in the back and joined for the first round of shots. Flashing strobes illuminated the writhing bodies on the dancefloor for brief moments of alternating colors, and as the alcohol started settling into Lando’s system, he eagerly threw himself in. 

Surrounded by throngs of people and his thoughts being blasted away by the music, he finally let the scream he’d been holding onto escape as a loud whoop. It was lost in the crowd, so Lando did it, again and again, until all the butterflies had disappeared and Lando felt like, if he went back to the hotel, he could be normal around P again. 

Mission accomplished at relieving the pressure P created with a few words, Lando let himself get lost in the energy of everyone around him. He’d circle back to the booth for a few more shots with Charles and Max and a few other drivers there, like Daniel and Pierre and was doing an amazing job at not thinking about P. 

Up until the point he saw Logan fucking Sargeant trailing in behind Alex. 

By then, the channel between his brain and his tongue was wide open with no barriers, so he blamed the alcohol for how he staggered over to Logan and pointed an accusing finger at him. Later, he couldn’t even blame Logan for how he immediately hid behind Alex, a confused and slightly scared look in his eyes. 

“You!” he said crossly, not even acknowledging Alex despite the Thai man’s bewildered stare. “You know what P’s face looks like!”

The American’s eyebrows furrowed and his lips parted. “‘P’? Oh, you mean Jac- OP?” 

Lando nodded furiously. “Yeah, what’s up with that?” 

“Hey, mate,” Alex interrupted. “I think you’ve had—”

“No!” Lando cried out. “I want to hear what he has to say.” 

Alex glanced back at Logan, concern written all over his face, but the American just shrugged as if to say, “It’s fine”. The Thai man nodded, still frowning, but walked off to grab a drink. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Logan sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “but OP and I have known each other since before he put on the mask—”

“I know and that’s the problem!” Lando whined. “You’re like his Charles!” 

A myriad of emotions flickered across Logan’s face, but remained mostly set on confusion.

"You have the whole childhood friends thing," Lando continued rambling, crossing his arms as he swayed slightly. "And you're not his teammate, just like Max isn't Charles'! But I'm his teammate and I don't want us to end up like Lewis and Nico, but if you've already seen his face that already makes you more like Charles than I'll ever be!" 

Logan's eyes slowly widened. 

“Are you… jealous?" the American asked, mouth slightly parted at this onslaught of information.

Lando didn't answer, just continued scowling at him. 

"Oh my god. Oh my god, wow," Logan laughed disbelievingly. "Well, I can at least tell you that you have nothing to worry about between OP and I. That is firmly out of the question." 

Arsehole, Lando thought angrily. He knew that Logan didn't have a partner, there'd been nobody but his family at the tracks the whole season, so how could he so confidently say that? Besides, that's what Charles and Max said about each other for years before they finally got their shit together, why would it be different for Logan and P? 

Lando opened his mouth to tell the American as such, but before he could get a word out, a very drunk Max slammed into him with a fit of giggles and a few half-assed apologies. As Lando fought to keep both of them on their feet, he looked up to see that Alex had whisked Logan away to the other side of the room, pressing a drink into his hand and, huh, slipping a possessive hand down the American’s back pocket. 

As Lando watched the flush spread across Logan’s cheeks, and the young driver sent a look back towards Lando, his brain finally connected the dots. The anger drained out of his veins as he got Max situated on his feet. Maybe he didn’t have to be so worried about Logan after all. 

o-o-o

The next day, despite nursing a hangover, Lando had extra pep in his step. It was enough for Jon to shoot him a suspicious look. When asked what happened, Lando simply shrugged and said he had a good night. 

Jon left it at that, clearly too fed up with Lando’s bullshit to question him further.

A few days later, P off-handedly mentioned Logan and immediately shot a look at Lando to gauge his reaction. But the Brit just smiled and asked how he was doing. P glanced at him with curious eyes but seemed relieved that whatever dislike Lando had been harboring for the American was over now. 

o-o-o

Austria came and went, with Lando managing an impressive 4th, his highest of the season, and P struggling with the car and unfortunately ending 16th. But that didn’t matter because a week later, they were in Silverstone. 

On Thursday, Lando basked in the attention from all the fans that came up to support him (and Lewis and George, but mostly him, of course) for his home race. He was excited. Despite the annoyance he’d shot back at the engineer in Canada, the upgrades for the car had finally arrived and they looked promising, at least from the data he’d seen. How they worked in the race remained to be seen, but he allowed himself to feel cautiously optimistic. 

On Saturday, the enthusiasm had waned a little as both drivers struggled in free practice, but qualifying was where their pace would really matter. And it was happening in about thirty minutes, so Lando was sent to grab P from his driver’s room. 

The door was already ajar when he got there, so he knocked and pushed the door open at the same time, glancing down at his phone as he said, “Hey, P, we’re starting—”

The words cut off as a squeak of surprise made him look up and see the back of P’s head. He blue screened for a moment, mouth dropped open at the brown waves of hair that looked deliciously soft and the reddening tips of his ears and oh my god, were those more moles at the back of his neck? 

And then his brain caught up to his eyes. Lando gasped and covered his eyes with his hand, slamming the door shut behind him as he yelled, “Sorry, sorry!” through the door. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Lando paced outside of P’s room, thoughts racing through his mind at the same speed they drove. He couldn’t believe he had just done that, it was a complete violation of P’s trust! Oh my god, P was never going to trust him now, he had fucked everything up and now his teammate was going to hate him forever and—

The door clicking open had Lando pausing mid-step, eyes wide as P stepped out of his driver’s room, his balaclava secured in place. His hands strapped the Velcro around his neck into place. He still looked a bit flushed, with red from his cheeks creeping up from under the black fabric. 

But his voice was steady as he said, “Hey, mate. Sorry about that, I can’t believe I forgot to lock the door.”

And Lando squeaked out, “No, no, that was my fault. I’m so so sorry again, P, I never would’ve—” 

“Don’t worry, Lando, I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” P reassured, slapping a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Thanks for, um. Not looking, though.” 

Lando shot him an incredulous look. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Isn’t that, like, basic etiquette, to not look?” 

P grimaced under the mask, his eyebrows knit together. “You’d be surprised how many people lack basic etiquette nowadays. Far too many people I’ve met are more interested in finding out what’s behind the mask rather than getting to know the guy wearing it.” 

The Brit scowled at the ground, already imagining fighting whatever arseholes decided to invade P’s privacy. God, if he ever found out—

“And by the way, if you want, you can call me Jack.” 

—who those slimy—wait. 

“I—what? ” Lando cried out, his voice high-pitched, as his head whipped towards P. His mouth hung open for the second time in five minutes and all his thoughts faded to white noise. P ducked his head. 

“Um. Yeah, that’s what… that’s what some of my closer friends call me,” he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I meant to mention it earlier, but… now seemed like as decent a time as any.” 

Lando just gaped as P—no, Jack— shifted from foot to foot. 

“Y’know, if you keep your mouth open any longer, you’ll catch flies,” Jack teased. 

Lando immediately snapped his mouth shut, willing his static-filled brain to come up with anything and finally managed to say, “Oh my god. Yeah. Um. Thank you?” 

“Was that a question?” Jack asked teasingly, but his eyes glimmered with a hint of concern. 

“No,” Lando clarified, clearing his throat. “Uh. Genuinely, thank you, Jack. I’m… I’m really glad that you trust me like that. Sorry, I just… wow, was not expecting that, mate.” 

He tested the name mentally again. It didn’t roll off his tongue the way he wanted it to, but he imagined it was because of how new it all was. He would adapt and learn to love the name just like how he did with the person. 

Jack ducked his head again, red darkening the visible parts of his cheeks again. God, Lando wanted to kiss him so much that it almost hurt. Especially now that he could imagine more of his teammate’s appearance, like how his ears would color when he blushed and his dark brown locks and those adorable moles. 

He wanted to count every mark on Jack’s body one day, catalogue them like the stars and find the constellations within. 

“Was there something you needed me for, by the way?” Jack asked, jerking Lando out of his thoughts. “When you first came into my room.” 

Oh. Oh, fuck they had qualifying, that was what Lando needed to grab Jack for. 

“Oh my god—shit, yeah, quali starts in like twenty minutes. We have to go.” 

“Lando,” was the exasperated response. The Brit flashed an embarrassed grin at his teammate, but he would risk being late to every quali of his life if it meant he got to keep hearing Jack say his name like that. 

o-o-o

“Lando Norris, that is P2!” Will yelled through the radio. “Spectacular job, man, amazing drive! ¡Vamos!” 

“Yes!” Lando whooped back. “Podium in my home race! Haha, woo!” 

The pure elation filling his entire body lit him up from head to toe. He felt delirious because how had he just managed his first podium of the season, at his home race, after leading the first few laps? It seemed like a fantasy, but the cheers of the crowd around him reminded him of just how real it was. 

As he finished his cooldown lap and pulled into the parc fermé, right in front of the P2 sign, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I love you guys, you know that?” 

Will chuckled and confirmed that, yes, they knew and loved him just as much. It wasn’t until he got out of the car and looked back into third to see Hamilton instead of Jack, like he expected. Glancing further back, he saw Jack in P4. The Aussie clambered out of the car and showed him a thumbs up, a motion that Lando responded to with a nod. 

With Jack confirmed to be okay, Lando turned back to where the team was all waiting and launched himself into their waiting arms. He felt like he was on top of the world right now, laughing as he was showered in affectionate slaps and “Well done, mate!”s. 

He grinned broadly, soaking up the attention before pulling himself away and having his attention swiftly grabbed by Max slapping him on the back. The Dutchman flipped his visor up and heartily congratulated Lando before following his gaze back to where the Aussie was slipping away to his driver’s room to change before post-race interviews. 

Max looked back at Lando, whose cheeks did not erupt into red, and laughed directly in his face. 

“Oh, fuck off, mate,” Lando said quietly, not wanting the microphones all around to pick it up. 

“Can’t!” Max wheezed. “Not when you are looking at him with literal hearts in your eyes!” 

“Mate, you’re one to speak! Have you even seen how you and Charles look at each other? It’s so sappy, makes me want to vomit.” Lando emphasized with a fake retch, but all it did was make the reigning champion laugh even harder. 

Before Lando could embarrass himself further, Max was whisked away to the scales and Lando turned to see Lewis giving him a strange look. Before he could think about it further, the other Brit launched into a discussion of the race, comparing thoughts and just like that, the rest of the post-race routine flew by.

Then he was standing on the podium, popping a bottle of champagne into the sky with a 2nd place trophy sitting next to him. He was showered in it by Lewis and Max, did the same to them with what little alcohol remained in the bottle after the initial burst, an ecstatic smile written all over his face. 

Finally, he’d done it. He’d made it to the podium after four torturous months of abysmal result after abysmal result and now his reward was made tangible with the trophy by his side and the champagne dripping off his face and running down his throat. 

But as grateful as he was for his own results, he couldn’t help but wish that Jack was standing on the podium with him. 

Once the champagne ran dry and Les Toreadors finished playing in the background, he snagged his trophy and walked off the stage, waving to all the screaming fans.

But as he walked through the narrow hallway, excited to change out of his soaking race suit, a hand grabbed his wrist. He whirled around to see Lewis, a concerned look on the Mercedes’ driver’s face.

”Hey,” he said, worry furrowing his brows, “I saw you and OP in parc fermé and I felt like, as someone who’s experienced this before, I needed to warn you: be careful getting involved with a teammate, okay?”

Lando didn’t get a chance to respond as Lewis slapped him on the shoulder, a grim smile on his face.

He did his best not to think about Lewis’ words as he hurried back to his driver’s room. The thoughts were completely put out of his head as he looked up and his face split into another wide smile at the sight of Jack waiting for him outside his room. Despite Lando being soaking wet and Jack wearing regular clothes, Lando was immediately pulled into a hug by the younger man. 

“Well done, mate,” Jack laughed. “Wish I could’ve been up there with you, but we’ll get ‘em next time, yeah?” 

“For sure,” Lando agreed, smiling at the younger man. “Stellar drive today, you really should’ve been up there.”

“No point dwelling on the what-ifs at this point. Besides, it’s a nice feeling being disappointed with fourth.” Jack whacked him on the back good-naturedly. “Go change, though. We’ve got the fan stage in 20 minutes, and I’m sure they’ll be more than excited to see you.”

“Don’t discount yourself, mate,” Lando called back as he pushed open the door to his room. “You don’t realize how much they already love you.” 

Or how much I do, he finished internally as the door closed behind him and the fading sound of Jack’s laugh echoed around the room. 

Once he changed into a neon green hoodie and bucket hat, as well as a McLaren vest to show his “team spirit” or whatever Charlotte called it, then followed Jack to the stage, his chest grew exponentially lighter as he saw just how many people came to support them. There were flags and screams, and more importantly, a rousing chant of “Ohh-oh-oh-p-eightyyy-one!” 

Lando glanced over at his teammate and was pleased to see the young Aussie shyly crinkle his eyes at the reaction to his presence. When Jack made eye contact with him, he raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “See? I told you so.” And Jack, always joyful, let out an abashed laugh. 

Soon enough, though, the attention was shifted to Lando. He smiled disbelievingly at the amount of support being shown to him right now, sending out praises and thanks and promises of the future. 

Someone with a camera motioned that it was time for a picture, so Lando slid next to Jack, arms held behind him. But then he felt the brush of a hand against his side and glanced down to see Jack wiggling his arm around Lando’s waist. Lando glanced down at Jack’s hand, then back up to his face. 

Jack seemed nervous for a second, his eyes betraying his fear, but Lando beamed at the younger man and immediately loosened his arms to wrap one around Jack’s shoulders. He felt the tension drain out of the other man and couldn’t help himself from tilting his head in just a little bit more than he would’ve with Daniel or Carlos. 

Once they split apart, Lando turned back to the crowd and threw both fists into the air, garnering a wild cheer. With his back to his teammate, there was no way he could have seen the soft, tender gaze from sun-warmed brown eyes that lingered long after everyone else would’ve looked away. 

o-o-o

Lando Norris’ Checklist

1. See any part of his face (accomplished x2) 
2. Get his name
3. See his full face (before anyone else)
4. Kiss my rookie fucking teammate

Chapter Text

Lando panted slightly as he fought to keep himself upright. He groaned at the pain that radiated from his contorted body, his right foot swung over his left and leaving himself in a fucked-up version of a crab walk. Sweat beaded on forehead, threatening to drip into his eyes. 

But he couldn’t let himself lose his balance, not right now. He gritted his teeth. Didn’t matter how long it took, or how much his muscles screamed at him, he wasn’t going to stop until he won. 

“Left hand green!” their social media manager announced gleefully. 

And oh, fuck, maybe he was going to lose. Stupid Twister. Whose fucked-up idea was this, anyways? They were drivers, not gymnasts. But with how bending they'd done in the past ten minutes, they might as well be. But as he fought his protesting muscles and tendons to place his hand on that damn green dot, he glanced backwards to see how Jack was doing and—

“What a sight that is,” he muttered with a smile, immediately glancing away before his face could redden. Jack’s legs were placed on the green and red dots, all the way across from each other on the Twister map and thus forced him into a middle split. He was turned away from Lando with his hands on the dots in front of him. 

It was a position that would’ve been completely fine, had it not shoved his ass directly into Lando’s face. All he hoped was that he was tan enough to hide the blush forming on his face. 

This was just the latest event that was quickly making Lando realize that this game was panning out to be much worse than initially advertised. At first he thought the most painful part would be him stretching more than Jon had ever made him endure, but no. It was the sounds being let out as Jack struggled to balance. He kept letting out these ridiculous pants and groans and little bits of winded commentary to the camera and Lando was going insane trying not to react. 

Because how could he listen to Jack grunt, gasp, and let out breathless fucking giggles and be expected to act like a normal person? Completely and utterly stupid what Jack was putting him through here. Lando couldn’t believe how inconsiderate the Aussie was. 

Eventually they got themselves to a point where they were facing each other again. Because of the colors Lando was straddling with his legs, it meant that the line of yellow dots was almost entirely covered by his body. It also meant that he effectively boxed Jack into the corner, leaving the Aussie with very few options to move, especially if the spinner were to land on yellow. 

So naturally, because the universe hated him, the young woman in charge of the spinner cursed by Satan himself announced, “Left foot yellow!” 

And naturally, because the universe fucking despised him, the only available dot where Jack could place his leg was right between Lando’s split legs, directly below his crotch. 

“P!” Lando laughed breathily, careful to not use the name Jack had so kindly gifted him. That was reserved for him and whoever else Jack deemed a close enough friend, not the world. Lando smiled nervously while he fought the heat that was threatening to burn his cheeks as the Aussie kept fucking giggling. “Your left foot is not going between my legs!” 

Jack just kept wheezing but didn’t back down. He seemed to be seriously considering doing what Lando had just expressly told him not to, glancing from his foot to the dot underneath Lando and back. 

Jack, I swear to God, if you try that, I will explode, Lando thought frantically. Headlines: McLaren driver dead by spontaneous combustion at the hands of his too-cute, menace of a teammate.  

Eventually Jack moved and Lando had a heart attack, but he only attempted to put his foot on the same yellow dot as Lando’s hand. Before he could put it down, he was corrected by the team. Apparently sharing a dot was against the rules. 

Lando whipped his head towards the camera and stared wide-eyed into it, almost begging them to take it back as he asked, “So it does have to go between my legs?” 

And with that, Jack finally groaned and gave up, staggering back and straightening up as he put his hands on his hips. 

“I win!” Lando commented cheerfully to the camera. He too stood up, relaxing his aching legs, and wiggled his limbs, forcing blood back into them. He did his best not to think about where that blood might have gone if the challenge didn’t end when it did. 

o-o-o

“So, OP’s left leg, huh?” are the first words out of Max’s mouth when Lando picks up the phone. 

“Fuck off, Max,” Lando groaned. He squeezed the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he rifled through his fridge for one of the pre-prepared meals Jon had shoved in his hands last week. They were currently on summer break, and the video went up a few days ago. Lando had skimmed through the comments, finding that a disproportionate number referenced the game of Twister instead of the other two games they tried. It was a little alarming seeing how many unknowingly caught on to his inner monologue. 

“Get yourself someone who says your name like how Lando says ‘P’,” one comment read. 

“P’s breathy laugh, I CAN’T! Idk how lando does it I could never-” said another, a sentiment Lando wholeheartedly agreed on. 

“‘What a sight that is’ SURE AS HELL IS” was proudly announced by someone else. 

“Look,” Lando sighed, shaking his head to dispel the memories of the comment section as he snatched a container off the shelf and popped the door closed with his hip, “you can’t say that you wouldn’t react the same way if Charles had to put his leg between yours.” 

“Yes, I can,” Max said simply. “Because I would be focused on winning. And I have had him between my legs enough to—”

“Ew, gross, never talk to me again about what you and Charles get up to.” Lando shuddered. He shifted the phone to his hand as he threw his lunch—chicken breast and wholegrain rice, again—into the microwave and started the countdown. “That was like hearing my parents talking about sex. Absolutely disgusting.” 

Max burst out laughing. “Point is, Lando, you went from hating the idea of the guy to really liking him in not so many months, no?” 

Lando dragged his free hand down his face, calluses catching on stubble as his food sadly spun on the glass dish. Just as sad as his love life, if he was being painfully honest.

Another thing he hated to be honest about was the fact that Max wasn’t wrong. 

“Yeah,” he finally admitted. “And I think we’re getting closer? At least as friends, cause he gave me his name and all, but—”

“What?” Charles’ voice suddenly screeched through the tinny speaker. Lando yanked it away from his ear with a wince. 

“First off, ow, second, Max, why the hell do you never tell me when you’re with Charles?” Lando demanded. He glared at his phone as he switched it to speaker and set it on the counter, freeing his hands to grab his piping hot meal and move it to his kitchen table. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Max’s voice returned. “He was very insistent that I call you and ask about that video. And”—his tone turned a little scolding and got quieter, like he was turning to face Charles—“I guess he got a bit too excited when you mentioned that fun fact. But you are one to speak about not sharing things!” Max got louder as he turned his attention back to Lando. “When were you going to tell me that he told you his name? I cannot say I am not with Charles on this one.” 

“Oh, um… sorry? Yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you about that,” Lando mumbled as he dug through his drawers for a fork. “But it wasn’t his real name, it was a nickname that his close friends call him.” 

Two incredulous scoffs simultaneously echoed around Lando’s kitchen. 

“Lando, I have known Max since we were eight, and he didn’t tell me his name until we were twenty-two,” Charles said disbelievingly. “You have known OP for, what, seven months? And he gave you something else to call him?”

“Yeah… we first met in January,” he said as he pulled out the utensil and plopped down in a chair. “And it’s great and all that he’s starting to trust me, but what am I supposed to do now? I want to be more than his friend, but I don’t want to creep him out or break the trust we’ve got going now, y’know?” 

Silence met his words, before a smacking sound burst out of the speaker. 

“Did Charles just hit you?” Lando asked with a little laugh. 

“No,” Max responded with a sigh. “He hit himself. A facepalm. Thank you, Lando, for driving my boyfriend to the point of hitting himself.” 

Lando threw up his hands like the other two drivers could see them. “Hey, what the hell did I do!” he protested. 

“Be dense as a fucking rock,” was Max’s response, before the line went dead. 

o-o-o

A week after the twister video went up, the two drivers were ambushed with not one but two video ideas. Lando fought the urge to roll his eyes as he read the message from Charlotte. He knew that this was part of his contract and that the fans were eating up their interactions, but he didn’t know how many more times he could sit in close proximity to Jack and be fine. 

Plus, it had been about a week since he’d last seen Jack, with summer break and all, and any tolerance he might’ve built up to Jack had surely vanished in that time period. So Lando would be at a complete disadvantage. 

Though, as he looked at the email again, he realized the challenges might not be as bad as he initially thought. The plan for the first one was for them to paint portraits of each other, at the behest of one of their sponsors which was—big surprise—a paint company. The second would be cake decorating for McLaren’s 60th birthday. 

At least for the first one, it should be fairly simple, since Jack’s persona was basically a black mask with a little room for his eyes. Lando could do that. 

Easy enough, right? 

As usual, wrong. 

Lando really needed to start reading the follow-up emails, as well as mentally prepare for every single challenge video, because Jack seemed intent on making Lando go mad with anything they filmed together. 

Apparently someone from the PR team had also realized that Jack’s portrait would be mostly black and was concerned what public perception of it might be, despite innocent intentions. Because of that, Jack volunteered to show up in something different to make the video less risky and more interesting for Lando. 

And apparently, different meant he forwent the balaclava entirely and showed up to the MTC in a papaya face mask and a pair of sunglasses. 

Lando blanked. Hard. Hard enough to the point where he zoned out of all the prep that went into the video. He barely even registered himself getting zipped up into a crinkly plastic suit to protect their clothes, because holy hell, how was he supposed to stop looking at the gentle waves of Jack’s hair, the little swoop above his left eye of brown locks that shone golden in the light and looked soft and silky and would probably slide over his fingers like water if he ran his hand through it? 

How was he meant to stop looking intently at the moles now visible on Jack’s pale neck and wonder how many more covered his body, or not question how easily that soft, exposed skin would bruise if he put his teeth to it? 

Before he knew it, he was sat in front of a canvas with cups of paint and sets of brushes around him, Jack across from him with his own materials. Without his eyes showing, it was a bit harder to see what face he was making, but he hadn’t quite lost the habit of moving with his whole body to express his feelings. 

Jack tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, clearly questioning why Lando had yet to look away from his face. 

At that, Lando finally managed to break his gaze and look towards the camera. Ignoring Jack’s silent question, he conjured up the most confident, PR-instilled smile he could and gestured to the crew that he was ready to start the intro. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Jack deflate a little bit, almost like he was despondent about the lack of interaction.

He fought to keep his eyes on the camera as he introduced the challenge, but they inevitably drifted back to Jack, who had straightened up like nothing had happened. But then again, he thought as Jack easily started bantering with him, no hint of disappointment or anything other than his general quiet enthusiasm on his face, maybe nothing did. 

After all, he’d only known the man for seven months. No matter how close they seemed, it wasn’t like Jack would be sad about Lando not talking to him. 

Lando then slipped into his role and began cracking jokes with the Aussie, trying desperately not to think about how maybe he did want Jack to be a bit dismayed. 

Instead, he immediately reached for the biggest brush possible, slathering purple paint over his canvas and doing his best not to dwell on the fact that Jack kept staring at him. Lando knew that it was bound to happen with the nature of the challenge, and even though he couldn’t see Jack’s soft, brown eyes, hidden behind the dark lenses of his papaya-colored sunglasses, he knew that they were fixed on him. 

He resolutely continued smearing purple over the cloth until there was no cloth left to cover. Then he did it again, reasoning that he was smoothing out the layers. 

It wasn’t until Charlotte announced that there were five minutes left that Lando internally sighed and resigned himself to having to look at Jack’s face. After all, an entirely purple canvas wasn’t exactly the point of the challenge. 

He squared his shoulders and grabbed the paint and a thinner brush, looking over the table at Jack, who was currently scanning the table and bemoaning the fact that there were no natural colors in their mix of buckets. 

What a terrible subject for a portrait, he wasn’t even looking at Lando. 

“P, look at me, please, mate,” Lando said quietly, the dripping brush poised in one hand as he pushed it against the canvas. Jack’s head immediately snapped up at his words and he acquiesced, sitting still and looking pretty forward at Lando. 

Lando tried to match the swoop of Jack’s hair and did not think about how he barely had to say anything to get Jack’s attention. He accomplished both tasks with limited success and was slowly coming to realize that still-wet purple paint he first layered on, as well as the excess amounts of pink he’d dunked the brush with, were not helping his brush strokes stay coherent. At least his thoughts were slightly more organized. 

“Your hair, like, does”—he made a jerky arc through the air with the paint brush to illustrate—“though. Not like you don’t know that, just thought I’d explain that.” 

Jack laughed as he started moving again, returning his attention to his own portrait. 

“Yours is curly, so it’s hard to paint that,” Jack mused, making circles on his canvas with some orange paint. He did maybe two before he caught Lando’s attention again by wheezing with embarrassment. Lando shot him a slightly concerned smile. 

“Should I be nervous about what I’ll see by the end of this?” he asked, adding more purple to outline the curve of Jack’s cheek. “Cause I don’t think my hair is that orange.” 

Jack didn’t answer, just continuing to giggle as he continued swirling paint onto the portrait. 

Lando wanted to judge, but considering how his portrait currently consisted of the McDonalds logo, he doubted he could say anything. 

“I’ve just done you all pink,” Lando muttered, adding the mask and some misshapen sunglasses. He lit up, though, as Jack immediately let out a chortle of surprised delight. 

“That sounds better than what I’ve done to you,” Jack chuckled. He ran a hand through his hair, letting the gentle waves swoop back into position. 

Lando watched the movement intently as he said, “Mm, yeah, especially since you’ve made me ginger. You know I’ve got a friend on Quadrant who’ll be quite unhappy I took his look.” 

Lando squinted back down at his painting and at the squiggles meant to resemble Jack, before shaking his head slightly and accepting that perhaps the best thing now was just chaos. 

“Just make sure to tell him that it wasn’t my fault,” Jack said absently, his sunglasses tilted down towards the canvas. “We’ve got pretty limited colors here, I’m working with what I can.” 

“Yeah, I’ll pass on the message.” Lando grabbed a cup with green and started flicking it onto the canvas despondently, before turning to the camera, Office-style. 

He pointed to the camera with green paint sloughing off the bristles. “Ginge, I promise you now, Jack didn’t intentionally steal your thing. As far as I know. Who knows what he’s really got going inside that big head of his.” 

It wasn’t until he had turned back to the painting and threw some yellow paint on that it hit him.

“Oh. Oh, no,” Lando said, clapping a hand over his mouth as he whirled to face the crew. “Can we cut that bit?” 

Confused glances flitted around the crew, before Charlotte realized what Lando had just said. She stepped forward and reassured him that, yes, the editors would cut that bit and delete the clip because they had an easy cut right before Lando turned to the camera. 

Which, great, yes, that was all fine and dandy for the viewers, but Lando had just revealed Jack’s nickname to the rest of the crew. It was too late for him to bleep or censor himself, the words had already escaped his mouth. He couldn’t go back and edit this one. 

Oh fuck. 

Panic rose like bile in his throat and he was two seconds away from standing up and deleting the footage from the camera himself because even the editors seeing that clip was too much, too much guilt for him to bear, too many people who would see and then know the secret that Jack had so kindly and trustingly given him, just for him to fuck it all up a few weeks in, and— 

A gentle hand was laid on Lando’s arm. He jerked slightly at the contact, looking down from where Jack’s slim fingers were curled lightly around his forearm and darting up to look Jack’s eyes. His uncovered eyes, since he’d also decided to take off his sunglasses at the same time. 

If Lando didn’t pass out from the fear of Jack hating him for the rest of their time as teammates, he probably would from just how much of Jack’s face he was seeing right now. It felt like a gift, something he didn’t deserve to have, not after what he just revealed. 

“Hey,” Jack reassured softly. “You’re fine, mate. I probably should’ve told you earlier, but you’re fine using it with the team. It’s just the media and the fans I don’t want knowing.” He glanced towards the crew. “Besides, I trust our little papaya family.” 

A series of eager nods and nosies of agreement rolled through the crew. 

“You’re good,” Jack promised a second time. “It was just a mistake. We all make them.” His hand squeezed Lando’s arm softly. Comfortingly. 

“Are you sure?” he whispered, fear still holding his vocal cords captive. 

Jack’s eyes crinkled. “I promise,” he said back, grasping a little tighter. 

Lando searched in his eyes for any trace of uncertainty, a tinge of anger or disappointment. 

All he found in those warm depths was the utmost sincerity and complete forgiveness. 

He nodded in acceptance and Jack released his arm with a smile, sliding his sunglasses back on. 

“Besides,” Jack said casually as he picked up another cup of paint, “you’re better than Logan. I told him back when we were at Prema and the first thing he does? Shout it across the garage at the next race, less than two days later. It was a miracle that nobody outside of our team heard it.” 

And Lando couldn’t help the watery laugh that erupted from his throat as the lump in his throat began to recede. 

They finish up the video, with Lando only tipping a cup of paint once , but it was large enough for him to understand why they wrapped the both of them from head to toe in plastic. And God, the portraits turn out even shittier than he could’ve expected, but that doesn’t stop him from deciding that he would hang the one Jack made as soon as he got home. 

o-o-o

They’re given an hour or two to rest before filming the next video: cake decorating for McLaren’s 60th birthday. 

After being decked out in party hats and aprons, they’re situated in front of a table covered with decorations, frosting, and other bakery utensils Lando is unsure of the names of. They did a quick intro and were let loose to sabotage and struggle to their hearts’ content. 

Didn’t even seem to matter how good or bad they were at the challenges. As long as they were able to interact, the fans—and Lando—would eat up every second of it. 

So, Lando stole Jack’s jam and Jack stole all of the toppings. Despite their attempts at artistic flair, they somehow managed to finish with very similar looking cakes. Perhaps because of, similar to the portraits, the limited supplies they were provided. 

Everyone left the recording satisfied and the crew filed out a few minutes ago, leaving the two drivers to enjoy the cakes they’d decorated. 

“Only a small portion” had been the strict warnings from their trainers. Not that it mattered right now. They were so engrossed in a debate over the best place to nap in the garage that they hadn’t even had a chance to look at the cakes. Besides, Lando assumed that once they were done chatting, they’d cut their pieces and go their separate ways since it wasn’t like they could eat with each other. 

Or drink, he continued, which was why it was a bit strange and thoughtless, in his opinion, of the crew to hand Jack a bottle of water once they finished shooting. At the same time, though, if Jack really wanted a drink, he could always ask Lando to turn around, so it must not be that big of a deal. 

Either way, the barrier of his mask didn’t stop him from turning the bottle over in his hands, cracking the seal around the cap and opening and closing it absently. 

Lando was in the middle of a sentence when Jack glanced around the empty room and apparently decided that, fuck it all, he was thirsty. 

Because one second, Lando was blabbering about the different places he’s snuck off to at different circuits, and the next, he was staring at the bottom half of Jack’s face as the Aussie took a sip of water, his mask pulled underneath his chin. 

Lando immediately stuttered, words fading as Jack noticed his reaction and quirked his soft pink lips into a toothless smile. It created little dimples on his cheeks. Cheeks that, like Lando suspected, were dappled with even more beauty marks. 

Lando swallowed hard. “Um,” he managed, voice pitched high. 

At that, Jack’s smile evolved into a full one, exposing the cutest fucking bunny teeth Lando had ever seen. Fuck.

“What?” Jack asked, touching his chin. “Do I have something on my face?” 

Lando’s mouth dropped open. Oh this little shit. With his brain rebooted thanks to pure spite, Lando dunked his fingers into a bowl of frosting and smeared it into Jack’s face cheek. His skin was warm and soft, smooth without a hint of stubble. 

“Yes.” 

The Aussie froze with disbelief, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was a beautiful sight to watch, like the sun rising over the horizon to warm the planet with its rays. Lando basked in it, enough that he almost missed Jack muttering, “Oh, now you’ve done it” as he reached for his own extra frosting.

Driver reflexes came in handy as a sticky hand was shoved at Lando’s face. He screeched and ducked while Jack wheezed with laughter, chasing him around the tiny kitchen. One hand snagged Lando’s fleeing wrist and yanked him backwards while the other smeared the frosting onto Lando’s face. 

Lando shrieked as he twisted himself out of Jack’s grasp and lunged across the table for a bowl of sprinkles. Jack was doubled over laughing, keeping his sunglasses on his face with one hand, but as he looked up, Lando launched colored sugar bits directly at his face with a furious war cry. 

It only caused Jack to laugh even harder, gasping for breath and frantically shaking sprinkles out of his hair as Lando scrambled for more. He was grinning so hard that it hurt, especially seeing the sprinkles stuck onto the frosting he’d smeared on Jack’s face earlier. 

“No you don’t!” Jack yelled, grabbing Lando’s ankles and dragging him backwards, away from his ammunition. 

Lando kicked—gently, of course, he didn’t want to hurt Jack—against the firm grip against his ankles and got one leg free long enough to grab one of the piping bags of frosting. Jack saw what he’d grabbed and gasped, letting go to dart behind the counter as Lando started giggling maniacally. 

His feet now firmly planted on the ground, he followed Jack, missing how the Aussie had snagged his own bag. So to his shock and horror, as he chased Jack, the other whirled around, holding the bag of frosting like a shotgun. Lando mirrored him instantly. 

They stared at each other for a second, chests heaving as they considered their options. 

“Well,” Lando drawled in a terrible American accent. “Looks like we got ourselves quite the standoff.” 

“Oh my god, you’re such an idi—” 

Jack never got the chance to finish his sentence, because the second Jack started speaking, Lando squeezed hard, shooting frosting out of the tiny tip of the piping bag at Mach 2 speed and catching the Aussie off guard. 

Words turned into shrieks and Jack threw up his arms to protect himself, the blue frosting ribboning across his forearms. A second later, Jack’s form stiffened and Lando registered the clack of plastic sunglasses hitting the ground. 

With a small yelp, Lando spun away from his teammate, the battle forgotten as Jack fumbled for his sunglasses. 

A minute later, he heard a quiet, “All good, mate.” 

To his slight disappointment, Jack had apparently taken that minute to hastily wipe his face clean of frosting and replace both the sunglasses and the mask. 

“Thanks for that, Lando,” Jack said quietly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to ruin the battle.” 

Lando snorted, doing his best to put his teammate at ease and hide the gutted look in his eyes. “No problem. And besides, battle? What battle? I had basically just won.” 

The mask moved over Jack’s skin as he smiled beneath it. “Oh, really?”

And somehow, Lando had forgotten about the bag that Jack still had clenched in his hands. Before he could react, he was doused in his own round of frosting. 

Lando gasped in mock anger. “Dirty move, OP!” 

He scooped more icing onto his fingers and lunged at the other man, but the Aussie just danced away from him, laughing. No matter how many swipes he took, Jack managed to stay out of his reach. 

Lando narrowed his eyes. Fine. Seemed that this had come down to a battle of wits and strategy instead of raw strength. He glanced around the room for half a second and focused on the wall behind and to the left of Jack. 

He smiled, a plan formulating in his brain. He feigned a leap left, Jack predictably mirroring him. In an instant, Lando jumped forward. Jack stumbled backwards with a surprised cry and slammed straight into the wall that Lando had positioned him in front of him. 

With an outstretched hand and a war cry, Lando reached for Jack’s face, ready to smear the icing all over him and his mask. But before he could, Jack reacted with instincts trained by years of fighting younger siblings and snatched Lando’s hands out of the air by the wrists, pulling them above his head. 

Lando let out a little yelp as momentum from the upwards motion carried his body farther forward than he planned, before he slammed into Jack with a quiet oomph. The collision left them chest to chest, legs entwined, their faces inches away from each other. 

Time seemed to slow down as Lando looked up at Jack. The Aussie’s glasses had slid down his nose from the collision, meaning Lando was greeted with the sight of his wide brown eyes. In the space between their breaths, those stretched out seconds, he could count every single eyelash, see the arch of each surprised brow. 

He saw the tiny beauty mark in the outside corner of Jack’s left eye and felt the beginnings of a balmy exhale penetrating Jack’s mask spread over his face. He basked in the warmth that penetrated his clothes from every millimeter where they pressed together, skin separated from skin by just a few layers of fabric. Distantly, he even noticed how firm yet gentle Jack’s grip on his wrists was, as well as the warm, sticky feeling of melting icing dripping down his fingertips, as viscous as time in this moment. 

Lando absorbed it all in half an instant, the overwhelming feeling of perceiving not dissimilar to how he felt in the second before a crash occurred, where he just knew that everything had somehow aligned and led to this one unavoidable moment and all that was left to do was wait for the impact. 

But the impact never came. 

The spell broke as Jack’s exhale morphed into a ragged gasp. Lando blinked as time turned liquid again, flowing along like usual, before his brain registered what happened and he yanked himself away. 

His wrists tingled from where Jack’s fingers had pressed against the skin, phantom warmth lingering long after it should have faded. Lando glanced away, fear that he’d crossed a line beginning to bubble up in his chest. 

When Lando looked back up, Jack stood panting against the wall still, but his arms had dropped down to his sides. One had evidently pushed up his sunglasses on the way down, since his eyes were once again hidden behind the dark plastic lenses. 

“I… I should probably go find someone to help us clean this up,” Jack croaked, gesturing to the mess they’d made of the room. He cleared his throat, then peeled himself off the wall. 

Lando nodded numbly. “Yeah, yeah… sounds good, mate.” 

They stood awkwardly for a moment longer, neither looking at the other. Jack cleared his throat again. 

Shifting from side to side, Jack’s shoulders dropped a little as the silence continued, before he clicked his tongue and fled out the door. 

Lando pushed his palms against his eyes as soon as Jack left. 

He’d absolutely fucked everything up now. 

When Jack returned with a tired but kind janitor who told them not to worry about it and that he would handle the rest, the two drivers quickly abandoned the trashed room with simultaneous “thanks”. 

They shuffled to the entrance of the MTC, the silence still surrounding them like a thick cloud of smoke. 

“Right, mate, I don’t know about you, but I am disgustingly sticky,” Lando said quietly, praying that something, anything, broke the tension. He gestured at his ruined shirt. “Think I’m gonna stop by the washroom, see how much of this I can get off before I head out.” 

“‘Kay,” Jack murmured, glancing at the door and back to Lando. “I guess I’ll see you after the break then, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Just hope the second half of the season doesn’t start as bad as the first.” 

“Don’t we all,” Jack’s mask moved in what would normally be a broad smile. But as short of time he’d known Jack, something in his voice told Lando that it didn’t reach his eyes. 

Lando moved to slap him on the shoulder, aching with the notion that he wouldn’t see Jack for another two weeks, but aborted the movement halfway through. His hand stuttered in the air and then stopped, before returning to his side. 

“I’ll, uh. I’ll see you later, OP,” Lando finally managed. Jack nodded and Lando turned away from Jack, towards a bathroom he knew lay around the corner at the other end of the entranceway. 

But as he started walking away, Jack called out, “Lando!” 

He turned back, confusion written all over his face. 

The young man twisted his hands, the small portion of his cheeks that was visible beginning to redden as he blurted out, “It’s… it’s Oscar, by the way. Not OP.” 

The words said, he turned on his heel and pushed the door open, basically running to his car. Lando stood there, still as a statue. For how long, he couldn’t say. It could’ve been seconds. It could’ve been hours. All he knew was that his mind was frantically replaying the name, over and over. 

“Oscar,” he whispered, testing out the name. It rolled off his tongue in a way that “Jack” and “P” never could. “Oscar,” he said again as a soft smile spread across his face. 

He hadn’t fucked up. He didn’t know how he managed that, with everything that happened in the past twenty minutes, but for one of the first times in his life, he hadn’t fucked everything up by being stupid and emotional. Somehow, Oscar had forgiven him and showed it with the trust he had in Lando by giving him his real name. 

There was a lightness in his chest he’d never felt before. As he stood there, grinning dopily like an idiot at the front of the MTC in the space where Oscar used to be, the one coherent, stupid thought running through his head was, “Thank god it wasn’t ‘Orlando’.” 

o-o-o

Lando Norris’ Checklist

1. See any part of his face (accomplished x3) 
2. Get his name (x2) 
3. See his full face (before anyone else)
4. Kiss my rookie fucking teammate

Chapter Text

The next month of racing after the summer break took them all around the globe. As usual, the intense schedule and frequent time changes left both drivers struggling to adapt. But nothing could dampen the joy that came from finally having a good car. 

The weekends were no longer agonizing, and Lando found himself finally able to enjoy his job again. 

They arrived in Japan with high hopes, riding off of the last race in Singapore. Lando found himself in second place on the podium, his third of the season, and he couldn’t deny how sweet champagne tasted, freshly popped on the stage. Meanwhile Oscar had managed an incredible drive, fighting all the way up from P17 to finish in the points at P7. 

And it seemed that their hopes hadn’t been misplaced. On Saturday, they’d both done tremendously. Max, of course, was on pole, but Oscar was right behind in second, with Lando placing third with less than five hundredths of a second between them. 

Then Sunday, after 53 grueling laps, 5 DNFs, and multiple safety cars, they made it. Words couldn’t describe how thrilling it was to finish P2 and then hear from Will that Oscar was the car behind, fending off Charles with a healthy seven second gap. 

Of course, almost all of their progress was overshadowed by Red Bull winning the Constructors’ Championship with Max’s victory and despite Checo’s DNF. But to Lando and Oscar, it didn’t matter. In parc fermé, all three had been showered in praise, with many coming up to congratulate Oscar on his first podium. Lando watched with a proud smile on his face, watching as the Aussie kept ducking his head with embarrassment as more and more people came up to him. 

He remembered his first podium well, back in 2020 in Austria. Seeing other drivers come up to him, some of which he’d watched growing up as a kid, to congratulate him, was a surreal feeling. The adrenaline and joy all combined to create an inexplicable and overwhelming feeling of pure energy. 

Lando was sure Oscar was feeling at least a little of that, despite the placid attitude he displayed on the outside. Once Oscar was free of everyone else, Lando waited until he came back from changing to throw an arm around his shoulders. 

“What a race, mate!” he grinned broadly, watching as Oscar’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Can’t believe we get to witness your first podium together!” 

Oscar laughed, glancing down at the ground as he shook his head slightly. “Yeah, could’ve been me in second, but… just didn’t have the pace. You drove amazing today.” 

Lando’s smile grew deeper as he patted Oscar’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. He glanced around to make sure there was no media nearby before he quietly continued, “But it’s only a matter of time until it’s your turn, Osc, I just know it.” 

Oscar glanced away, the mask shifting where he smiled. “Thanks, Lando,” he murmured back. “And ‘Osc’?” he parroted shyly. 

“Yep! Can’t escape any nicknames now,” Lando laughed, watching in delight as a brilliant flush spread across the visible parts of Oscar’s cheeks. 

With one more squeeze to his deltoid, Lando let go and ran off to his interview, leaving Oscar to his own. 

Once done with that, they spent some time in the cooldown room, somehow discussing podcasts for a few minutes, and the next thing Lando knew, he was watching Oscar glance over his shoulder back at him, flashing a thumbs up before heading out on the stage to claim his first podium in F1. As he walked out, Lando couldn’t help but notice just how silly Oscar looked with the Pirelli hat over his balaclava. 

Lando watched the tiny screen backstage as the Aussie shook hands and bobbed his head in thanks, before taking his rightful place on the step. Loud cheers echoed around the stadium and Lando was so engrossed watching him fidget, nerves evident, that he almost missed his cue to join Oscar on stage. In a rush, he hurried out and went through the same process of hand shaking and waving to the screaming crowd. 

Finally, Max made it out and the stadium erupted into sound. 

Lando couldn’t even fault them for their enthusiasm. It wasn’t every day you got to witness a team win the Constructors’ Championship, after all. 

Besides, he still had adrenaline running through his veins, and not just from the race. It was exhilarating, being this close to the top step. Someday, he’d get there, Lando just knew it. As he looked down at the crowd in front of the stage, papaya shirts standing out bright against the crowd, he was struck with the sudden, inexplicable belief that this would be the team he did it with. 

They were presented their trophies, each raised it high above their head, and then, it was time for the champagne. 

Max predictably went straight for Christian, leaving Oscar and Lando to spray each other before they simultaneously turned to the Red Bull driver. He gratefully returned the shower. 

Lando looked over at Oscar, a wide smile on his face, only for it to drop as he saw Oscar slip a hand underneath his balaclava and push it a few inches away from his face. He tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows in questioning concern, but Oscar simply nodded, which Lando accepted as a sign he was okay.

It wasn’t until they were off the stage and walking back to their driver’s rooms—alone for once, thankfully—that he realized that Oscar did that because Lando inadvertently waterboarded him with the champagne. 

He whipped back to face Oscar, a guilty look on his face. But before he could even say anything, Oscar cut him off.

“No,” he scolded lightly. “I know that look, you’re about to apologize for something stupid. Don’t. I’ve been doing that since I started wearing the mask, don’t worry.” 

“But—”

“No.” 

Lando shifted from foot to foot, champagne dripping from his curls as he cradled his trophy in one arm. “You didn’t even get to drink any of the champagne,” he finally said. 

“I barely drink in the first place, Lando, it’s not a big deal,” was Oscar’s amused response. “Besides, we have a debrief after this. Can’t walk into that tipsy and lose my chance to get the upgrades first, now can I?” 

Lando laughed. “I’ve done worse, believe me.”

Oscar just shook his head, and said, “But you’re not the rookie here, are you?” 

“Nope, so I’m going to sneak back out there and grab what’s left of the champagne, then meet you at the meeting.” 

Oscar scoffed and lightly shoved him away. “I don’t think you have to resort to that. Besides, there’ll be way more at whatever club you’re going to tonight.” 

Lando lit up at the mention of that. “Yes! Osc, please, we have to go out together. It’s your first podium in F1, we need to celebrate that!” 

Oscar let out a long suffering sigh, pinching his temple between his fingers before looking up at Lando, who immediately put on his best puppy dog eyes. 

They seemed to work because with a light roll of his eyes, Oscar said, “Fine, mate, take me out.” 

Lando pumped a fist and beamed at his teammate. “I promise you won’t regret this. We’re going to have such an amazing time.” 

o-o-o

When Lando opened his hotel door at 10pm, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect from Oscar. A nice button down, some nice accessories, maybe. Not the plain black T-shirt, dark jeans, and baseball cap that stood in his doorway. At least he had the decency to switch to a black mask and a dark pair of sunglasses, rather than the garish papaya he usually wore. 

“No,” Lando said immediately. Oscar’s brows furrowed. 

“Why not?” he asked, glancing down like his outfit was anywhere near acceptable for a club. 

“Oh my god, you freaking muppet,” Lando muttered, opening the door fully to let Oscar in. As he passed, Lando acted on instinct and snatched the cap off Oscar’s head, pulling it onto his own head backwards. The Aussie let out a little noise of protest, but nothing else. Lando closed the door behind him and continued, “We’re getting you something else to wear. You look like the bouncer right now.” 

“I quite liked this,” Oscar sniffed, but followed regardless and slipped off the sunglasses as soon as the door closed behind him. He did it with such an ease and familiarity that Lando almost didn’t react. “Almost” meaning it was just a minor skip in his heart rate, instead of a full blown flatline. 

“Well that’s just too bad, innit?” Lando shot back as he rifled through his suitcase for a suitable shirt. “Besides I’m the reigning professional in terms of clubs, so you should listen to me.” 

Lando heard a snort and shoved a middle finger behind his back, which Oscar let out a muttered, but fond, “Dick,” at. 

Finally, he found one that should fit and tossed it over to Oscar, who had sat on the bed while waiting. 

Oscar caught it with one hand, his eyes glittering with curiosity as he unfolded the shirt and looked appraisingly at it. It was a dark maroon button up, a similar style to the white one that Lando wore. 

The Aussie made a contemplative noise, before dropping the shirt onto the bed. Lando had about half a second to comprehend what was happening, but despite all of the reflexes trained into him, nothing could’ve turned him in time to avoid seeing Oscar pull off his shirt with a movement as casual as him taking his sunglasses off. 

It exposed his pale, hairless chest, still soft and lacking the hard, lean edges that Lando had. It wasn’t to say he wasn’t toned, because he was, something that was an almost guaranteed fact in their line of work. And it also wasn’t to say that he wasn’t fit. Lando swallowed hard as his eyes landed on one of the stupidest, smallest waists he’d ever seen. Some tiny part of his brain wondered how it would look with his hands around it. 

He let out a quiet inhale at that thought, praying that Oscar didn’t hear it. But by the way Oscar’s eyes darted from the shirt to him, a curious look in his eye, Lando could tell he failed. That didn’t stop him from whirling around as fast as he could, fighting back the red undoubtedly coloring the tips of his ears. 

“Jesus, Osc, warn a guy before you start stripping in front of him,” he tried, aiming for indifference but coming out too squeaky for that to be the case. Oscar just laughed. He wiped his palms on his pants, then twisted his rings as he heard fabric rustling. 

“All good, mate,” Oscar said a few moments later. “This thing’s got a lot of buttons.” 

“I mean it is in the name,” Lando replied, a little breathless. Because damn. Oscar looked good in his clothes. Lando felt a little twist of delight shiver up his spine at the sight. “Just undo the top two buttons and you’re golden, mate.” 

Oscar looked down at where the shirt was buttoned up to his throat. “One,” he argued back. 

Lando waved a hand, gathering his phone and wallet. “Fine, you prude, do what you want.” 

Seemingly satisfied with the compromise, Oscar popped open the first button and then they were off. 

They piled into an Uber, whose driver thankfully didn’t recognize them. When they arrived, they quickly found the rest of their group at a booth in the back. Max already looked a bit sloshed, no doubt the recipient of quite a few shots to celebrate the Constructors’ Championship, and Charles was pressed against his side, also looking a little lost, with George conversing animatedly with him over the pumping bass of the speakers. 

Alex and Logan were also there, though the two were rather preoccupied with each other’s mouths at the moment in one of the darker corners of the club. Pierre and Yuki were by the bar getting another round while Daniel was undoubtedly already out on the dance floor, charming his way through the population, Carlos most likely with him. 

His suspicions were confirmed as the crowd parted momentarily, showing Daniel with his arm wrapped around Carlos’ shoulders, both of them swaying with the crowd as the lights strobe overhead. The latter’s mouth formed something that looked suspiciously like a “¡Vamos!” and Lando knew they were having a great time as the crowd swallowed them again. 

Max was the first to catch sight of them and waved them over with a lopsided grin. 

“Glad you guys could make it,” the reigning world champion said loudly as Oscar and Lando slid into the booth next to George. Yuki and Pierre returned from the bar, tray laden with shot glasses full of God knows what. That didn’t stop Lando from eagerly reaching for one, Oscar tentatively following suit. 

The familiar burn licking down his throat is a welcome feeling and soon enough, he goes back for another. Oscar had yet to take his first, holding it gently between his fingers. Once Lando finished his second, Oscar leaned in, making the goosebumps rise on Lando’s neck. 

“Cover me, would you?” is the murmured question in his ear. 

Lando doesn’t get anything more than that before Oscar unhooks his mask from the side facing the cushions of the booth. Lando understood a second later, and immediately leaned in to cover Oscar’s face from the other side, leaving the other to quickly down the liquor. 

“Fuck,” Oscar muttered once it was done. “Forgot how much that sucks.” 

He slid the mask back into place and Lando leaned back in his seat, before saying, “Yeah, but at least after the shit part’s over, you get to have some fun.” 

Oscar rolled his whole head in his weird, full-body-motion version of an eyeroll. Yelling slightly over the music, he said, “God forbid a man have fun sober.” 

Lando laughed, leaning back in to shout, “Not saying he can’t, just saying it’s more fun drunk.” 

They each took one more, then another, then maybe just one more, until his stomach felt warm from the alcohol heating it from the inside, the room felt a little hazy, and the dance floor was only growing more enticing. 

Wiggling out of the booth, Lando held out a hand to Oscar, whose sunglasses looked down and up at Lando, clearly unimpressed. 

“Come on, mate, I told you we’d have a good time. You’re not gonna do that sitting there, now come on.” 

With a heavy sigh, Oscar took his hand and Lando pulled him up, a triumphant grin on his face. He felt eyes on him and glanced over to where Logan had finally pulled off Alex. The American raised an eyebrow at Lando, glancing between the two of them. Oscar followed his gaze and flushed. Logan tilted his head, and Oscar nodded. The conversation completed, both returned to their respective activities. 

Lando dragged the Aussie to the middle of the dance floor, where he stood, stiff as a board as Lando began moving to the beat. There wasn’t much coordination involved in dancing once there was enough alcohol to dissolve any fears of people watching you. 

So obviously, the floor was full of flopping limbs, uncoordinated legs, and sharp elbows. Oscar took it all like a rock being battered with waves in the middle of the ocean, until Lando rolled his eyes. He grabbed Oscar’s hands and started swaying in time with the music, hoping that Oscar would copy him. Slowly, like an age-old, rusted machine creaking back to life with enough oil and polishing, he moved. 

Lando grinned wildly at him, his necklace bouncing on his chest as he jumped around. Oscar watched with mild amusement. A second later, Oscar stumbled forward as he was shoved from behind, quite literally falling into Lando’s arms. Oscar grabbed his shoulders as Lando went for his waist. To his surprise and utter delight, Oscar’s waist did look great with his hands wrapped around it. 

The thought was enough for Lando’s brain to blank for a second, stalling just enough for him to see but not be able to react to Oscar’s sunglasses slipping off his face and onto the floor. As they fell, he made a lunge for them, but that only sent them spinning into the crowd, only to be stomped on and smashed a second later. 

They both stared at the shattered bits of plastic as the crowd writhed around them for a minute, then looked back at each other and burst out laughing. Oscar’s eyes were a little hazy, his gaze soft as he looked at Lando, no longer obstructed by the sunglasses. His shoulders were a little scrunched together, and it was then that Lando noticed that their hands hadn’t moved. He guessed Oscar still needed to catch his balance. That did look like quite the stumble, after all. He couldn’t come up with a reason why he hadn’t dropped his yet. 

But Lando lost that train of thought as Oscar leaned down and muttered, “Shame. I liked that pair. And it’s a lot brighter without them.” 

Lando just cackled and slipped Oscar’s hat off his own head, squashing it down, and facing it the right way, back onto the original owner’s head. 

“Here,” was the dumb thing that slipped out of Lando’s mouth. “Better?” 

“Much,” responded Oscar, blinking slowly under the lights. They still made no move to separate from each other, responding to the motions of the crowd by swaying back and forth. 

The lights continued flashing, the world kept spinning, but in that second, all Lando could do was stare Oscar, where the only thing keeping him anonymous was a flimsy black surgical mask and the shade of a hat. 

He thought about all of the times he’d been on the brink of seeing Oscar’s face, yet never quite got there. He had all the pieces, but somehow, he failed to put them together and the completed picture evaded him. 

But, as the strobing continued and the bass rattled his chest, Lando came to the startling realization that that was okay. He’d been given the scattered components of the puzzle that was Oscar, but with enough time and care, somehow he’d managed to outline it. He’d started the hardest part by finding all the edge pieces and painstakingly fit them together, gleaning the barest understanding of what he was creating, of who he was getting to know. Sure, he could attach a few of the center pieces to the outline, those easy pieces that lined up with the outside pattern, but with no reference image, where did one go from there? 

Easy. He didn’t; someone else with the whole picture took over. 

Oscar had that picture, was the picture. His skilled hands would place the pieces, revealing more of the final masterpiece. And if he chose to share the beautiful, completed work with Lando, share what he’d worked hard to disassemble over the past seven years, that was something up to him. 

While the two of them ebbed and flowed in the tide of people around them, Lando felt that resolute understanding settle in his heart. If Oscar saw the rapid realization materialize in Lando’s eyes, he didn’t say anything, just kept his warm hands on Lando’s shoulders and moved with the music, about a foot of space between them. 

Then it was Lando’s turn to be shoved. He didn’t try all that hard to catch himself, not when he had a perfectly good barrier in front of him. The crowd surged into the space created by the two drivers pushing closer together and left Lando with nowhere to retreat back to. 

And just like that night in the MTC, where Lando learned Oscar’s real name, they pressed against each other, arms sliding to wrap tighter around each other as they shared breaths. The room spun slightly around him, loud and disorienting enough that he almost imagined seeing Oscar’s eyes flick down to his lips. 

But as Lando opened his mouth to say something, maybe to crack a joke, maybe to ask if he wanted to get out of here, a hand clasping his shoulder had him jumping away in surprise. 

“Lando!” Carlos drunkenly slurred, leaning more of his body weight onto Lando as he threw his arm over Lando’s shoulders. “You did so good today, what a race, ¡cabrón!” 

Lando wanted to rip his hair out. He gave a polite smile back, thanking him. Internally, though, he screamed. As much as he loved Carlos, the man couldn’t have had worse timing. 

He then seemed to notice Oscar standing there as well, and though his smile dropped a little, his words were still genuine as he said, “Congratulations to you too, OP. First podium of your career!” Oscar nodded in his head in silent thanks. 

His social obligation bases covered, the Spaniard turned his attention back to Lando. Laughing a little, he leaned in. Over the pounding music, he shouted, “He’s showing a lot of face right now! All going to plan, I see!” 

What? What plan is he talking about?

Oscar seemed confused as well, but cautiously asked, “What plan are you referring to?” 

Carlos waved his hand through the air. “You know. Lando, you remember, yes? Or maybe not, we were very drunk," he giggled. "I will remind you. You said that you wanted to be the one to unmask OP before he won a championship, remember?”

Lando’s stomach dropped. Fragmented memories swirled in his mind, rising from the depths of his mind and reconstructing themselves in real time. 

“Carlos,” Lando complained as he flopped on the bed. “Please tell me you’re in Monaco.”

“You are lucky, I am,” the Spaniard replied. “Why?” 

Lando rolled over onto his back and looked at the ceiling. “It’s my stupid teammate,” he frowned, imagining OP’s dumb laugh and constant sarcasm. “Quite the competitive dick once you get to know him.” 

Carlos let out a noise of sympathy. “Want to get drunk and complain some more face to face?” 

“God, yes,” Lando groaned. 

Carlos showed up at his apartment fifteen minutes later with a bottle of vodka and a sympathetic smile. 

Forty-five minutes later, when they were far too many shots in, Lando let his fingers lazily trace the armrest of the couch he was slouched on. 

He grumbled and complained about useless things, things he, in reality, had no qualms with, but at this moment, they seemed like huge problems he needed to bitch about. Carlos laughed at each story Lando narrated. 

“I should just get to know the little bastard enough so that I can be the one to unmask him before he even gets close to a championship win,” Lando finally muttered once he was done. 

Carlos raised an eyebrow, lolling his head towards Lando. 

“New pet project for the season,” he scoffed. 

Lando let out a drunken laugh. “Yep, check in on me halfway through the season, see how far I’ve gotten with him.” 

Oh fuck. He’d completely forgotten about that night until this instant and violently cursed whatever god had allowed Carlos to remember their inebriated exchange from over six months ago. Said man was nowhere to be seen, slipping away from Lando and back towards Daniel after the other driver yelled out his name, and leaving the two of them frozen in the middle of the dancefloor. 

Lando looked up at Oscar, horror written all over his face. But it only got worse as he saw the look on Oscar’s face. In the flashes of light from the strobes overhead, he saw shock morph into understanding and then pure hurt. 

It changed again in a second to stone, painfully neutral and cold. 

The Brit immediately reached for Oscar, but the Aussie jerked away and turned his head away from Lando. 

“Osc—” Lando started desperately but the other man shook his head. 

“P,” Oscar corrected flatly, not even looking at Lando. “It’s P.” 

“No, no, please, I swear I didn’t mean— I didn't even remember—” 

But Oscar just shook his head again and before Lando could get out another word, he slipped away through the crowd. Lando chased after him, only to be caught by a wave of bodies. He fought against the tide to no avail, as the once familiar mass of bodies became an overwhelming, constricting force actively working against him. 

Fear exploded in his chest and he panted as it constricted his throat, eyes darting around the wall of arms and legs and torsos that were keeping him trapped, away from Oscar, away from a chance to explain. Panting evolved into hyperventilating as everything kept pressing against him and the frame he’d spent so long piecing together shattered in front of his eyes. 

No, no, no! 

He spun frantically, spotting a tiny gap that he shoved himself into with a few disgruntled noises from other dancers. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, not when he could just barely see through the throng of people that Oscar had grabbed Logan and the pair were heading towards the exit. 

Lando fought harder, not caring who he had to get through and finally, he burst free of the crowd and sprinted for the door. Distantly, he saw Max and Charles jump in surprise. 

He skidded outside and his eyes flew around the area, landing on a black Uber. Logan was holding open the door as Oscar climbed inside. 

“Wait!” Lando screamed, pleaded. 

Oscar almost looked back, but before he could get a proper look, Logan slid in front of him, slamming the car door and glowering at Lando. 

He took two steps forward, intercepting the Brit and pointing a finger in his face. The digit trembled with barely contained rage. 

“You absolute piece of shit,” the American spat. His voice shook with the weight of the anger swirling around his body. He jabbed his finger into Lando’s chest. Hard. “Don’t you dare try and come crawling back to him now after everything you said. I trusted you. He trusted you.”

“I—”

“No!” Logan hissed. “You don’t get to do that. Go fuck yourself. If you get anywhere near him, I swear to God, I will kill you myself.”

Logan whirled around at that, stalking back to the car and climbing in after Oscar. It drove off a second later, leaving Lando standing alone on the sidewalk outside the club, his world collapsing around him. 

“Lando,” Charles’ shocked voice said behind him, “what did you just do?” 

The Brit just shook his head, a hot tear sliding down his face. He shivered in the night air and watched as the car faded into the distance. 

“Something I don’t think I can fix,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Lando didn’t remember much from the next however many hours it took to get back to Monaco. He faintly recognized that he was being piled into an Uber, Charles and Max pressed against either side. Their presence should’ve been comforting, but all that Lando could imagine was the constricting crowd that ensnared him minutes ago. It was suffocating. He shrank into himself, trying to get away from their touch. 

His eyes burned as he stared blankly ahead. But it was nowhere near as painful as the phantom warmth from where Oscar’s hands held his shoulders, or as excruciating as the ache in his fingertips where he’d gripped Oscar’s waist. Even the point where Logan jabbed him hurt more, stinging like a brand with every pulse of his heart. 

He drifted as the landscape flew by, because what could possibly matter now? He’d broken everything between Oscar and him, probably irreparably. The pieces weren’t just scattered, they were destroyed. 

The next thing Lando knew, he was in someone’s hotel room. There was quiet whispering behind him, but he couldn’t be bothered to decipher what it was. He was handed an old T-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms and was silently guided to the bathroom. In a trance, he changed, rubbed some toothpaste on his teeth, and exited. 

Max was bent over the sofa, cushions scattered around the floor as he pulled out the folding bed. He turned back to face Lando after hearing the door open. Charles, he noticed, was gone. 

“Hey, Lando,” he said. His blue eyes were searching, and if the way he bit his lip was any indication, he wasn’t happy with what he found. “Take the bed for tonight, yes?” 

Lando nodded mutely, too exhausted to fight. There’d been too many fights today. He didn’t know if he could handle another. 

So he climbed into the bed, and curled up. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew he did because as he cracked open his eyes, he stood in his own hotel room. Lando blinked, swaying slightly in the middle of the room as Max and Charles pulled his strewn clothes back into his luggage. He watched as Charles picked up a plain black T-shirt off the bed. Lando tried to tell Charles it wasn’t his, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was thrown in with the rest of his clothes before he could get out a word. 

Then all that remained were flashes of another car ride, a plane he somehow dragged himself onto, and then he was standing in his Monaco apartment, Charles giving him a hug and Max telling him to get some rest. 

It wasn’t until the door closed behind them that the tears began to fall. It started slow. A sniffle, then a single tear tracing a wet trail down his face. But once the first tear dropped off his face and splashed on the ground, the floodgates opened. An ugly sob tore its way out of his throat. 

He sank to the floor in the middle of his entranceway, losing the strength to stand. His keening cries echoed around the empty flat. Lando was starkly alone in his misery. 

He didn’t know how long he was there, lying on cold tiles that slowly warmed with his body heat, weeping for what he’d lost. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been days. It didn’t matter. 

Eventually, the tears dried. The snot plugged his nostrils and his hiccuping breaths slowly evened out. All that was left by the end was a pounding headache and a hollow throbbing in his chest. 

He wanted to cry more. But there was nothing left, and that only made him feel worse. If his tears weren’t tangible, was his pain even real? If he couldn’t cry, then wasn’t that just pathetic. Lando felt like an imposter, an undeserving, disappointing excuse for a human who couldn’t even conjure tears. He could imagine Oscar’s curled lip, the sneer written on his face as he looked down at Lando. 

Can’t even shed a tear for me, the ghost of Oscar’s voice scoffed. You really didn’t care about me at all.  

He curled up tighter. 

His bones ached from laying on the ground for so long. But he still didn’t move, relishing in the lick of agony that shot up his spine every time he moved, the dull pain that radiated from his joints. If he couldn’t weep any more, the least he could do was physically punish himself. 

A soft knock on the door was the thing that finally moved him. 

At first, he ignored it. They’d go away if he didn’t answer, and he wasn’t exactly prepared to receive guests right now. Then the knock came again, this time harder, and accompanied with a shout of, “Lando! We know you’re in there, open up!” 

A beat of silence, then Max continued, “If you don’t, I’m breaking down the door.” 

With that threat, he staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the wall as his vision blurred for a moment at the rush of blood. Lando made a half-hearted effort to wipe his face, getting the worst of the snot onto his sleeve. There was little he could do about his blotchy cheeks and swollen eyes, so he just hoped that Max wouldn’t judge too harshly. 

He swung open the door to see Charles and Max wearing matching expressions of concern. 

“Hi,” Lando rasped, then winced. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank or ate anything, and his throat felt like sandpaper. 

Max wordlessly held up a bag of takeaway and Lando stepped aside to let them in. He shuffled towards the kitchen, sensing rather than seeing Charles and Max’s shared glances of worry. Lando knew they were looking at his suitcase still sitting exactly where they’d placed it hours ago, the dirty clothes he hadn’t changed out of, and the strange cadence of his gait created by a stiffness of muscles that hadn’t moved for a while. 

He slumped into a chair as Max and Charles bustled around him, opening the bag and pulling the contents out. 

The familiar smell of chicken noodle soup filled the small kitchen, but Lando urged himself to make no move for it, no matter how much his stomach cried. 

He didn’t deserve it. 

He sat, staring distantly at the wall as Charles poured the soup into another bowl and brought it over to him. 

“Lando,” Charles said softly, like he was comforting a scared animal, “you need to eat something.” He nudged the steaming bowl a little closer to Lando. 

Lando looked away. 

Max sighed. “I did not want to do this, but if you do not eat something, I will call Cisca.” 

Lando snapped his head back towards Max, his mouth wide open as disbelief temporarily overruled his refusal. 

“That’s a low blow,” Lando remarked, scowling at the bowl even as he grabbed the spoon and raised a small spoonful to his mouth. As much as he hated to admit it, the soup was delicious and, after far too much time without anything in his stomach, tasted like one of the best things he’d ever eaten. 

He sighed into the bowl, letting the nostalgic flavor wash over his tongue. It provided some semblance of comfort, like how his mum always used to make this when he was sick. 

Except the sickness he was currently experiencing was a product of his own design. 

The thought soured his appetite immediately, and after choking down another spoonful, he pushed it away. Max frowned slightly, but didn’t push further, probably relieved that Lando had eaten anything in the first place. 

The Dutchman grabbed the bowl and poured it back into the takeout container, then told Lando, “Charles and I are staying here until you go to bed, since you obviously did not do that when we told you to earlier today.” 

Lando glowered at him, hating the kid-glove treatment, but as much as the soup helped replenish a little energy, there wasn’t enough in him yet to make a snappy remark back at Max. 

“And when you are awake,” Max continued, ignoring the glare aimed his way, “you are going to tell us exactly what happened.” The tone of his voice and the glint in his eyes left no room for arguing. Feeling more like a child than ever, Lando shot Max a baleful glance before nodding. He slunk off to his room. 

Despite his hopes that he would stay awake longer and prolong the inevitable pain that was going to come from reliving that night, as soon as his aching body hit the mattress, sleep dragged him under like a rip current. He was drowning in the inky darkness before he even got a chance to try and swim for shore. 

o-o-o

“You said what?” Charles demanded. 

Lando sat in front of him on the bed, holding his head in his hands. It was mid afternoon by now. He’d slept in until eleven, and Max and Charles had been kind enough to let him choke down some more soup before beginning their interrogation. 

In those hours, he regaled the entire history between him and Oscar. They heard about every challenge video, all the quiet moments they got to themselves, and each piece of himself that Oscar gave to Lando. And most importantly, they heard Lando repeat what he’d told Carlos at the beginning of the season, the words stilted and grating like they were being dragged out of his throat with a hook. 

Max paced in the background, pinching the bridge of his nose as Chales stood in front of Lando’s wilted form, his arms crossed. It almost felt like he was being scolded by his parents, Lando thought hysterically.

“I don’t… I didn’t mean—” Lando started, his voice miserable and small. 

At those words, Max stopped his pacing and joined Charles in front of the bed. 

“Lando,” he said firmly, a fierce protectiveness Lando had never seen before burning in his eyes. And it wasn’t for him. “It doesn’t matter ‘what you meant’ when you said it. The fact of the matter is you said that about OP. Lando, you know how much the mask meant to him, to me, to every other driver who ever committed to the challenge in the history of F1!”

Lando shrank further into himself, pulling his legs up to his chest as the Dutchman’s words washed over him. 

“I don’t know what it is for OP,” Max continued, his voice turning brittle, “but for me, the mask was protection, too. It let me be someone other than Jos Verstappen’s son, it hid everything that my father—” 

Max inhaled sharply and turned away, unable to continue. His hands were clenched tightly by his side. Charles took one fist, gently uncurling the fingers and lightly circled his thumb over the back of Max’s hand. 

“Anonymity like that is sacred,” Max finally said, looking back at Lando. “For some, it is a shield, for others, it’s a reminder of what they came here to accomplish. But regardless of the reason, it’s something held close to the heart. OP let you in, and you betrayed that trust.” 

Lando hugged his knees tighter, his burning eyes locked onto his socks. He missed Max’s assessing eyes, the way they softened with a pained familiarity and sympathy that said that Max had been in the same position as Lando at the hands of someone else. He didn’t see Max glance at Charles, who gave him a nod and squeezed his hand briefly, before standing up and heading towards the door. It clicked shut behind him. 

Max sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You, of course, already know all this. You do not need me blaming you more.” 

Lando glanced up towards him. Max’s shoulders had sagged, the anger draining out of him. Lando’s eyes darted back to the floor, tracing the grout lines of the tiles with his eyes, but he was interrupted by a pair of black socks as Max stepped in front of Lando. He crouched down in front of Lando, filling the Brit’s field of view. Lando looked to the side, refusing to look at him. 

“You’re going to fix this. Charles and I will help all we can because neither of you deserve this,” the Dutchman said, before letting out a nervous breath. “So believe me when I say that I mean this in the nicest way possible: Lando, you need to get over yourself in this moment.” 

Lando jerked his head back in shock. “Excuse me?” 

“That did not come out very well,” Max said, a bit of discomfort on his face. “But what I mean is this isn’t just about you and your pain right now. You have been mourning for a day and a half now, and as far as I know, you have not once reached out to OP. Can you imagine how he is feeling?” 

The Brit swallowed hard, shifting a little on the bed. Max was right. All this time, Lando hadn’t once reached out to Oscar. 

“As far as he knows, you used him and betrayed his trust. And your silence right now is not helping the matter,” Max continued, unclasping Lando’s hands from around his knees. “You want to fix this, right?” 

Lando frantically nodded. 

“Then I need you to be completely honest when I ask you this: why?” 

Lando blinked. “Why what?” he croaked. 

Max’s intense blue eyes didn’t deviate from Lando’s once. “Why did you say those things about OP in the first place? Convince me that his anonymity is not the only reason you befriended him.” 

“But that’s the problem! The first reason I was obsessed with him was because of the anonymity!” Lando cried. He pulled his hands out of Max’s and pushed himself off the bed, beginning to pace around the room. “I was obsessed and jealous and stupid because the first second I met him, I knew that he was an amazing driver with the skills to back it up. How could he not be, with a CV like the one Zak showed me? Because here was the most fascinating person I’ve ever met and I wanted so desperately to be the one to uncover the secrets that mask hid.” 

Max took Lando’s spot on the bed. He waited for Lando to organize his thoughts as the Brit stopped in front of the window overlooking the harbor. 

“But then I got to know him and, God, he was genuine and sweet and incredible,” Lando whispered to the glass, “and even though I was so ready to fight with him, on and off track, he showed me nothing but kindness and trust. And eight months later, I—” he choked for a second at the weight of his realization. “Eight months later, I am so in love with him, with everything about him.” A wet sob rang through the air. “Now I couldn’t care less what he looks like. As long as I keep getting to spend time with him, I don’t care.” 

Lando looked back at Max, deep bags below his eyes and a haunted look on his face. “And every second since I remembered what I said, I keep wishing that I could go back and never say those words,” he said solemnly. But he continued with helplessness pitching his voice higher, “But I can’t. It’s like you said, Max. I said it, and I can’t take it back.” 

Silence filled the room for a second as Max found his words. 

“You are right, you cannot change the past,” Max eventually said. “But what you can do now is tell him everything you told me and more. Convince him that this wasn’t all for his face.”

Lando’s gaze flickered to the Dutchman. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?” 

“I cannot answer that,” Max shrugged, “but if you want to even try moving forward, you need to apologize and explain everything. He deserves at least that, regardless of whether or not he will forgive you.” 

Lando looked back out towards the harbor. He closed his eyes and pressed his head to the cool glass. 

Max was right. All that mattered now was making things right with Oscar. Whether or not they managed to get back to where they were didn’t matter to Lando anymore, as long as he got to tell Oscar everything. 

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.” 

The fog that had invaded his brain the moment Carlos had uttered those words began to lift as he realized that he now had a goal. He could do goals. He’d worked towards the singular goal of Formula 1 his entire life. 

But, he somehow suspected that this would be much, much harder to achieve. 

With shaking fingers, he pulled out his phone and drafted a message to Oscar with Max watching over his shoulder. 

Hey, it read, it’s Lando. Please, can we talk? It’s too much to say over text and you deserve to hear the words from my mouth, but please know that I’m so, so sorry. You are absolutely right to hate me right now, but please, can I talk to you?

He sent it before he could think too much about it and instantly threw it into the farthest corner of his room. 

Max chuckled a bit at his action, before pulling Lando into a firm hug that was desperately returned. 

“You’ll do right by him,” Max soothed, rubbing a hand on Lando’s back. “One step at a time. We will get there.” 

Lando nodded into his neck, blinking back tears. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. Lando allowed himself a few more seconds of comfort before pulling away. He wiped roughly at his eyes, sniffling slightly.

It was then that his stomach decided it was time for his appetite to return, and it growled loudly. Max just snorted and stood up, offering a hand to Lando. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Max said. Lando took his proffered hand and followed him out of his room. 

o-o-o

In the following days, Lando distracted himself from his phone as much as possible. First, he cleaned every inch of his flat, then spent way too much time with Max playing FIFA. Throw in a few more workouts with Jon than usual and he was golden. At least until he unpacked his suitcase from Japan. 

As he sorted his laundry into clean, dirty, darks and lights, he finally found Oscar’s shirt. He held it up, feeling a pang in his chest as the familiar, unnamable scent that was pure Oscar embedded into the shirt floated free and around him. 

His nostrils flared at the smell, but he refused to be the weirdo who shoved his nose into Oscar’s shirt. So this compromise would have to do. 

For a long time, probably too long, he sat there, debating if he wanted to wash the shirt or not. Eventually, he reluctantly decided he should wash it. He had to give it back to Oscar, after all, and it wouldn’t do to hand him a dirty shirt. 

The reasoning didn’t stop a bolt of regret from hitting him as he dropped the shirt into the washer. 

o-o-o

It took a week from when Lando sent the text for him to get a response. 

A torturous week, where Lando’s heart jumped into his throat every time he received a WhatsApp notification and he ran to his phone every time it pinged. There were constant knots in his stomach, tying and untying as he cycled through the same routine of remembering and regretting, then forgetting for a few hours, only for everything to flood back in at the next chime from his phone. 

To his slight disappointment and immense guilt, the message wasn’t from Oscar. 

Just leave him alone, came the message from Logan. You’ve already hurt him enough. Why do you keep coming back?

Lando stared at accusing words, wracking his brain for a response. There were things he could type out, but he hesitated at the thought of telling not one, but two different people the words that were meant for Oscar. 

He gnawed lightly at his thumb, before tentatively typing out a reply. 

Because I need to apologize. Not for my sake, for his. I fucked up, badly, and hurt him in ways I never, ever wanted to and in ways that he never deserved. I don’t need him to forgive me. I just want a chance to make this right. Please. 

The message was instantly read. No reply was sent. 

His message to Oscar was still unread. 

o-o-o

The two-week-long break between Japan and Qatar passed in a flash, and before Lando knew it, he was dripping sweat in the stifling heat of the desert. 

On Thursday, Lando caught a few glimpses of Oscar around the paddock. Despite the sweltering weather, the Australian remained covered in his balaclava and sunglasses. He never had the chance to do anything more than see him, as they’d been assigned to different media areas at the same time, leaving no opportunity for overlap. 

He was disappointed, but there was little he could do. 

As he was reviewing talking points with the PR officer, he heard final goodbyes from the previous session make their way through the door and looked up to see Logan leaving the pen. 

Lando paled as they locked eyes, the sharp blue-green freezing him in place. Logan ambled over, an easy smile plastered on his face for the media and their endless cameras, but Lando could see that it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like a predator stalking its prey with his smooth, calm walk. 

Lando was helpless to move as Logan stopped in front of him. Still showing that cold, dead grin, the American clapped Lando’s hand and pulled him in. 

“I told him what you said,” he whispered as he thumped his hand against Lando’s back with a little more force than necessary. “You better make this right.” 

The rest of his message was easily read between the lines from his tone: hurt him more, and I’ll kill you. Lando tried not to flinch at the words and the borderline beating his back just got, laughing like Logan said something funny before pulling away. 

“I will,” he vowed, keeping his tone light for everyone listening, but he hoped the look in his eyes betrayed just how honest he was. Logan’s gaze was searching, flickering back and forth. He finally gave an almost imperceptible nod, before slapping Lando’s shoulder lightly and brushing past. In total, the interaction was less than ten seconds, but being pinned under Logan’s scrutinizing gaze made it feel like an eternity. 

With the American giving his unofficial approval, a massive weight lifted off of his chest. He felt like he just passed the test and was judged worthy. It meant that there was a chance for redemption. 

For the rest of the interview, that was his only thought. 

He had a chance. He had a chance. He had a chance.  

He was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet by the last question, and it was only after the PR officer next to him gave him a quiet word of warning to stop moving so much that he held himself still. 

He sprinted back to his driver’s room, intent on getting back to his hotel as soon as possible. 

But any hope beating in his heart died as he pushed open the door and saw a familiar maroon button down sitting neatly on his couch. He stood in the doorway for a long while, staring at the clothing. Lando slowly approached the couch, before gingerly picking up the shirt. 

He couldn’t help but feel a wave of despair wash over him. After what Logan just told him, it felt like Oscar had made his choice. 

It felt like a goodbye. 

He hugged the shirt close to his chest, blinking back tears as he gathered the rest of his things and made his way to the garage, where a car was waiting for him. As he climbed into the car, wiping his eyes, he didn’t notice the shirt unfolding in his arms, or a piece of paper slipping free. Nor did he see Logan watching him from a distance, his eyes fixed on the paper fluttering to the ground behind Lando. 

After getting back to the hotel, he laid awake for a long time, silent tears dripping down his face, until he drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

o-o-o

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that he was in the car. At the track. Doing a lap with no recollection of how he got here. But he put his head down and did what he does best: race. 

He took the chicanes and corners with alarming speed, barely even feeling the vibrations of the car beneath him. In fact, it was so good that he was barely moving in the car. The G-forces felt like nothing, there was no strain on his neck. 

And then he finished the lap and Will was crackling in his ear that he placed P2, coming in second right behind Oscar. And as he pulled into parc fermé, he saw the Australian climb out of his car. A bolt of fear ran through him, but he couldn’t remember why, just that there was something that had pushed them apart. 

But it didn’t matter, because Oscar reached out a hand to grasp Lando’s hand in congratulations. His heart swelled. All had been forgiven. 

Then he was outside of his car. He didn’t remember stepping out. Oscar pulled him aside, media and team members nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t be bothered to wonder why, as the Australian ducked into a shadowy alley, tugging Lando with him. His touch felt ephemeral, like if Lando pulled the other way, Oscar’s hand would shatter. But the thought faded. Lando frowned at Oscar’s grasp around his wrist, not really sure why he was here. 

Oscar stopped in the alley, turning back and pulling his helmet and balaclava off. Lando didn’t think to look away, staring at the amorphous mass of flesh that was his teammate’s face. If he focused, he could see a familiar eye, the quirk of his lips, a mole or two over there. But he couldn’t piece it all together. 

Lando could tell the Australian was waiting for something. 

Oh, he thought, maybe he wants an apology.  

But for what? 

Lando opened his mouth, trying for words, but nothing came out. He tried to think back to what he needed to be sorry for, but his mind remained frighteningly blank. The more he tried to say, the worse it became. He watched as Oscar wilted, the light fading from his eyes. He pushed past Lando, walking away, away, away . 

Lando jerked awake with a gasp. He trembled as he shook off the last vestiges of the dream. As the roaring of his blood faded from his ears, he realized that someone was pounding on his door. 

“Lando!” Jon yelled, muffled but understandable. “Get up! We’re going to be late if you’re not moving soon!” 

Lando stumbled out of bed and grabbed his phone. It was dead, which explained how he didn’t wake up to an alarm. He got ready in record time, sprinting out the door and greeting an annoyed-looking Jon. His trainer just rolled his eyes at him. 

“Sorry,” Lando gasped, a little breathless from his mad sprint around the room. “Phone died.” 

Jon didn’t respond, shaking his head and beckoning Lando onwards. He made it to the paddock with just enough time to spare, and from that moment on, it was a flurry of activity as he and the team prepared for FP1 and quali. 

It wasn’t until he glanced across the garage that his thoughts drifted back to Oscar. God, all he wanted to do was talk to the other driver, apologize for everything. But with his shirt returned, he had a feeling that he was the last person Oscar wanted to talk to right now. 

Besides, there were other things that currently required his attention. Lando climbed into the car and let all thoughts apart from the session ahead of him fade. 

o-o-o

Perhaps, Lando thought with an internal sigh, he didn’t put those thoughts out of his head enough. The results he’d delivered were less than optimal: a P10 for both FP1 and quali. As much as it irked him that he hadn’t done as well as he wanted, there was still tomorrow’s sprint shootout, then the sprint itself, to try and do better. Besides, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for Oscar, who’d made it all the way to P6 for Sunday. 

Lando watched from a shadowed corner of the garage as the Australian received his well-earned praise from the team, longing to join as a deep aching tugged at his chest. 

With a sigh, external this time, he turned away and fled to his driver room, hoping that he could sneak in a quick nap before the inevitably awkward debrief, where he and Oscar would sit across from each other, pointedly not looking at the other. Lando cringed at the thought. 

He took a quick rinse and changed, then collapsed onto the small couch with a sigh, lazily sprawling out on his back. He picked up his phone, catching up on notifications when a familiar chime drew his attention to the top of the screen.

He sat bolt upright, clutching the phone in his hands.  

If you want to talk, meet me at Logan’s room in ten minutes.

His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He read the message over and over again. This was his chance. He couldn’t let it go to waste. 

Lando scrambled out of the door, tugging on his shoes as he ran, because dammit, Williams’ hospitality was all the way at the other end of the pitlane. 

As he sprinted over, and the light cast shadows in a certain way, he was hit with a dizzying sense of deja vu. Feeling sick, he realized it was because of his dream last night. But this was different. It had to be different. 

Lando didn’t know what he would do if it wasn’t. 

He slowed to a walk outside of Logan’s room, breathing a little heavy. He anxiously checked the time, seeing that he was right on time. Lando raised a nervous fist, hesitating for a second. He hadn’t prepared that much for this. What if it all ended up like his dream, and he lost Oscar, this time forever? 

No, he couldn’t let himself think that. Inhaling deeply, he rapped his knuckles three times against the door. 

A quiet, “Come in,” made its way through the thin walls. 

Lando pushed it open, and in a second, there he was. He fought a sharp inhale at the sight of Oscar, standing solid and real in front of him. He stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of him and balaclava in place, but he wore no sunglasses. He was something Lando didn’t realize he’d missed so much these past two weeks. 

“Hey,” Lando greeted softly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Oscar didn’t respond, the typical warm brown of his irises turned cold and dark and dead as he looked at Lando. 

Lando could see the rigidity of his shoulders, the slight way he swayed as he clutched at his elbows. When he looked closer, he could see that Oscar’s eyes were still swollen and red-rimmed. He’d been crying. Hard. 

Guilt ripped through him like a knife to the chest. 

“P,” Lando started, hating how the sound came out of his mouth. His tongue was suddenly as dry as the desert around them. He swallowed hard. “I… um. Great job. At quali today. P6, right? Hope that… hope it goes well, on Sunday. And tomorrow, of course. Since it’s the sprint.” 

Oh, God, Lando needed to shut up. He knew that this was not what Oscar was hoping to hear, if the way he glanced away and the microscopic slouch in his posture were anything to go by. Lando bit down on his tongue, hoping to stop the word vomit as fear writhed in his stomach and clenched his vocal chords. 

Panic flooded his brain, making all coherent thoughts disappear like morning mist in the sun. This was becoming too much like the dream, and the realization sent him spiraling even more. He grasped for words, something, anything, but nothing came, scared off by Oscar’s blank, distant stare. It was far too reminiscent of the expression Oscar wore last night, and in his fear-stricken mind, the memory overlapped and blurred with the Oscar standing in front of him, until he couldn’t tell which one was which. 

The fading echo of his words and the ensuing silence made him want to curl up into a ball and die. This was not the perfect, fairy tale, forgive-all confession he’d been hoping for. 

Lando could feel the window of opportunity closing more and more each second he fumbled with his words and the tight grip of terror on his throat wasn’t helping any matters. It was looking more and more like something he’d seen before and he couldn’t bear if this had the same ending. 

The air in the room was thick enough to be cut with a knife and Lando tried, frantically, to remember anything from what he’d brainstormed. There was so much he wanted to say, why couldn’t he just say it? Why had Max been able to coax it out of him, back in Monaco? 

Because I wasn’t trying to make it perfect, then, he realized with startling clarity. I thought about Oscar, and the words came.  

Lando took a steadying breath and wrung his hands once, before dropping them to his side. It was now or never. 

“I don’t think I can put into words just how sorry I am for what I said,” Lando said slowly. Words materialized in his mind as he continued speaking. Now that he wasn’t grasping for them, they slunk back into his mind. “What I said was… terrible, cruel, disgusting, and fifteen million other adjectives that describe the most horrendous acts in the world. I hurt you an unbelievable amount, and I am so, so sorry.”

Oscar raised his gaze slightly up from the floor, still not looking at Lando, but enough so that he knew that some of the Australian’s focus had returned to Lando. He tightened his arms further around himself. 

“Every day, for the past two weeks, I wish I could go back and erase everything that happened that night, snap my mouth shut and never let myself even think those thoughts in the first place,” he continued, the words flowing faster. “They were stupid, jealous ideas made verbal because the second Zak showed me your CV, the moment I walked into the MTC and shook your hand for the first time, I knew that you were going to be a world champion and I was obsessed.” 

Lando winced as Oscar hunched again. He could almost read the Aussie’s mind, somehow knowing that he thought Lando meant “obsessed with exposing his identity”. He had to clear that up, but it would be a bit like ripping the bandaid off. Lando took a deep breath. 

“I’m not going to lie to you, P, because before we met, my obsession was framed in jealousy. Because suddenly, I was competing against the most promising rookie of the decade, who had one of the most amazing junior careers we’ve seen. Everyone was predicting your greatness and I… I was jealous. 

Lando didn’t think it was possible, but Oscar held himself even tighter and scrunched himself even smaller. He desperately wanted to comfort the other man, but he couldn’t do that now. All he could tell himself was that the worst part was over. 

He exhaled, rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. He continued, “But… literally the second I met you, it turned into something else.” 

“It did?” Oscar whispered, a myriad of emotions flickering through his eyes as he looked up for the first time to look at Lando. Lando refused to let himself believe that he saw one that might be akin to hope. 

“Yeah, it did,” Lando confirmed with a watery laugh. “I didn’t want to admit it at first because I still wanted to hold on to this childish and immature resentment towards you for some stupid reason, but there was no way it couldn’t have changed for me after I got to know you. P, you are captivating , from the way you race, to the way you laugh, literally anything you do, I am obsessed. A different kind than how I was before I got to know you, though. Never jealous, not since that first video we filmed together that made me realize just how much I liked you, because how could I envy you when all you ever were was kind to me? You are one of the most fascinating, amazing, incredible, talented, and kind people I’ve ever gotten to meet.” 

Oscar let out a small sniffle. He looked somewhere over Lando’s shoulder, but he would take that over the floor, because at least his shoulder was adjacent to his face. And he needed Oscar to see on his face how genuine he was being.

“And looking back, if I had remembered what I said that night to Carlos, I never would have done it,” Lando continued. “I don’t care what’s under your mask, because no matter who it is, it’s still you. The same person I got to know, and like, and… love.” 

“Love?” Oscar breathed. He took a step closer to Lando. 

“Yeah, Oscar,” Lando choked out, finally daring to use his name, “I am so stupidly, insanely, head-over-heels, crash-my-car-every-weekend in love with you. You’re sweet and witty and so fucking smart, it’s insane, and I cherished every single second I got to spend with you over these past eight months, because it means I got to watch and hear you do that full-body laugh at something I said, or do that eyebrow raise when I know I just made a stupid comment, and all of your deadpan humor.”

Oscar was frantically wiping his eyes now. 

“I know that what I said is unforgivable, but I swear to God, if you let me, I will spend every day of the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. Because you deserve that and so much more.” His voice broke on the last words, but he steeled himself for his final thoughts with a deep inhale, staring at the ground to save himself from the hatred he was sure he would inevitably find there. “And if you don’t, I completely understand. I won’t blame you at all. You trusted me with so much of you and I—” 

A soft finger pressed against his lips cut off the rest of his words. Lando gasped lightly, his gaze shooting up to meet Oscar’s. The warmth was back, cold brown irises turning liquid with the diffusing heat from the shared points of contact between their bodies. 

“Lando,” Oscar said softly, sliding his hand down to cradle the Brit’s jaw. “Lando, God, I love you so much, too.” 

His gaze was full of unadulterated joy, and undeniable relief , smile lines streaking out from the corners of his eyes. Oscar blinked and the tears barely clinging to the bottom of his eyelashes rolled down his face, before soaking into the black fabric. A disbelieving sob crawled out of Lando’s throat and Oscar pulled Lando into his arms as the cries began in earnest. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Lando repeated, over and over. Oscar hugged him tighter and whispered back, “It’s okay, I forgive you,” until the protests faded. 

Once the sobs turned to sniffles, Oscar tugged Lando’s head out of the crook of his neck. He cupped Lando’s cheeks between his palms and pressed their foreheads together, tears and breaths mingling in the space between them. 

“I still have your shirt,” Lando hiccuped out, the only thing he could think of. 

Oscar let out a wet laugh. “Is that really the most important thing right now?” he asked while wiping his eyes. 

“I even washed it ‘n’ everything,” he muttered. “Didn’t really want to, at first, cause it smelled like you.” 

“Oh my God, you’re such an idiot,” Oscar giggled fondly, his words slightly muffled as he ducked his own head and spoke the words into Lando’s neck, his arms thrown around the other man’s shoulders. As Lando fought a shiver from the warm breath pressing into his skin, his hand came up to run through Oscar’s hair. It was just as silky smooth as he imagined it would be. 

They held each other for a few minutes longer, before reluctantly breaking apart, Lando’s hand sliding down Oscar’s neck, then arm, to grasp his hand. He squeezed once, and Oscar squeezed back. 

“We’ll take it slow, alright?” Lando asked. “Everything at your pace.” 

Oscar nodded, before tilting his head like he was going to say something else. His hand twitched upwards, but a loud pounding at the door startled them both. 

“You two better not be making out in my room!” Logan shouted through the door. 

Oscar gasped in mock anger, throwing open the door and planting one hand on a jutted hip. Logan stood there with a shit-eating grin, Alex next to him with his arm slung across Logan's shoulders. The Thai man looked at Lando and raised a questioning eyebrow. Lando just smiled back and Alex let out a little snort with a lopsided smirk. 

“Think we’re all clear on that front, Loges,” Alex said. “Now get, or we’ll go make out—or do worse— in your rooms.” 

A pair of disgusted groans echoed around the empty garage. 

“Never threaten anything like that again,” Lando shook his head, coming up to stand next to Oscar and gently take his hand. The pure delight in Oscar’s eyes at the motion made his stomach flip. 

They vacated the room like the Williams couple asked, and the door promptly shut behind them. Lando swung their conjoined hands slightly as they walked back to their garage. Oscar rolled his eyes, but as they were about to enter McLaren hospitality, the Australian ducked into a shadowy alley, tugging Lando with him. 

Lando’s sense of deja vu flooded back in a second. He forced it away. Dreams were nothing when compared to the grounding weight of Oscar’s hand in his. He pushed Oscar against the wall. They would be quite the scandal if someone happened to walk by right now, but it seemed the media had all retired after quali. 

“I didn’t realize Logan was listening the whole time,” Oscar quietly pouted, an adorable crinkle forming between his eyebrows. Lando smoothed it out with one finger.

“I mean, it was his room, mate.”

“Yeah, but I was hoping for a bit more privacy.” 

“I think we got plenty. At least enough for me to say what I needed.” 

Oscar scrunched his eyes at that. “Yeah. I’m glad you did.” 

Comfortable silence filled the air as they pressed together against the wall. Lando rested his head in the crook of Oscar’s neck, and the Australian’s hands had come up to loosely wrap around Lando’s torso. 

“Why did you leave my shirt in my room last night, by the way? I thought it meant that you never wanted to see me again.” 

Oscar’s eyes widened. “What? Was my note not there?” 

Lando shook his head. “What note?” 

“The note, tucked into the shirt. It had the time and place to meet me. How did you know to meet me in Logan’s room?” Oscar asked, his eyebrows furrowed together.

Lando mimicked his expression. “Because you texted me? Osc, mate, there was no note.” 

“But I didn’t text you,” Oscar murmured. “I gave my phone to Logan before quali, so I wouldn’t do something like text you.” 

The pieces clicked together for both of them at the same time. 

“He—”

“Oh my god—”

They both stopped after hearing the other one speak, looking up at each other before bursting into laughter. 

“Remind me to thank Logan so much after all this,” Oscar chuckled. Lando made a noise of agreement. 

“I thought Logan hated me, in all honesty,” Lando admitted. “What do you think changed?” 

“Mm. Probably Alex. Logan likes him a lot, and I’m willing to bet that Alex went to bat for you. Probably told him you say a lot of stupid shit without meaning it,” Oscar pondered aloud. 

Lando hummed, turning the words over in his mind. He’d have to send multiple thank you cards to Max, Charles, Logan, and Alex. 

But that was a problem for later. For now, he revelled in the warmth of Oscar’s body pressed against his. 

Eventually the sound of shuffling snapped them out of their trance. 

“Let’s talk more after this,” Lando suggested, looking up at Oscar. “Can’t keep Andrea waiting.”

With unfettered adoration still shining in his eyes, Oscar nodded. Lando pressed their foreheads together again, eyes closing momentarily, before he pulled away. He gave one final squeeze to Oscar’s hand and pulled away, the Australian following behind. 

In the debrief, Lando found great entertainment in lightly pushing his foot against Oscar’s leg. The Aussie kept glancing down and back up at him, an eyebrow cocked in mock annoyance. Lando would always send back a smirk, prompting Oscar to roll his eyes. Neither of them listened very closely to the engineers drone on. After all, the race wasn’t until Sunday. What mattered for tomorrow was the sprint. 

o-o-o

“And that’s P3, Lando, amazing job!” Will cheered into his ear. “Great fight, mate, another sprint podium under our belts and good points on the board.” 

Lando let out a small whoop, before asking, “All thanks to the team and everyone back at the factory. And top two?” He tried not to sound too eager. These were public radios, after all. 

A small pause, before Will crackled back, “Looks like OP held off Max for first.” 

“Well done, OP, well done!” Lando exclaimed as a wide grin spread across his face. “First win in F1! And congrats to Max, that’s his third WDC secured, yeah?” 

Will confirmed that it was, and Lando let out another string of exclamations. As happy as he was for Max, he couldn’t wait to get out of the car and give Oscar the congratulations he deserved. 

He pulled into parc fermé, pulling to the right to proudly park in front of the large 3, and glancing over to see Oscar hoisting himself out of the car on the left side of the pit lane. Max rolled between them and onto the lit-up stage congratulating him for his victory. 

The Dutchman thankfully took up all of the attention, leaving Lando free to dart across the way. He clasped Oscar’s hand and pulled him into a hug. 

“You are so incredible,” Lando murmured while they were still pressed together. He felt Oscar shake with a small laugh at that.

“Thanks,” he whispered back. Lando slapped him good-naturedly on the back before letting go. When he got a chance to look into Oscar’s eyes, he saw they were delightfully scrunched. Lando hoped that underneath the helmet and the mask, a broad smile matching Lando’s was spread across his face. 

Lando gave him a soft shove towards the team, watching the rookie go jump into their arms and revel in their praise. He made his way over to the weighing station and let them take his measurements. The second he was done, he ripped off his helmet and balaclava, taking his first, deep breath of fresh air in an hour and wiping the sweat off his forehead.

It was an effort that proved futile. Despite the late hour, the air was still stiflingly hot and as soon as the moisture was wiped away, more formed. He couldn’t imagine how Oscar was feeling, stuck beneath the helmet and balaclava until he had a chance to change. Max ambled over at that moment and he pulled the world champion into a brief side hug, too exhausted to do much more. 

Exhaustion blurred everything together, until he was standing on the small stage with the plaque in his hands, Oscar sandwiched between Lando and Max. There were innumerable camera flashes as the three all posed together. Lando could feel the heat radiating off of Oscar’s body, even through his suit. 

As soon as they were released from photos—not from the paddock, until they finished interviews, which could take God knew how much longer—Lando snatched a towel and a bottle of water from the small stands they had in front of the stage. Oscar stood tiredly, his helmet still on. He hadn’t gotten a chance to take it off yet, not trusting the balaclava to stay in place. Lando guided him over to the wall and held up both items with a small flourish. 

“I can cover you if you want to take off the helmet, or get some water,” he offered tentatively. 

The relieved look Oscar shot him through the gap of his visor created instant butterflies. He held up the towel, looking away and ensuring that it covered every inch of Oscar’s face, as well as making sure that no media was sneaking their way over. 

Thankfully, they all seemed rather preoccupied with Max, leaving Oscar free to slip off the helmet and readjust his balaclava as necessary. As Lando watched the interviews with Max, he heard the snap of the cap being twisted off and a satisfied groan as Oscar downed the water. From the splattering on the ground, it seemed that he’d poured the rest over his head. Lando did his best not to imagine what Oscar must look like. 

“Thank you,” Oscar finally said, and Lando took that as his sign to drop the towel. Grateful eyes peered back at Lando from underneath his balaclava.  

“Any time,” he smiled back. The Australian was called over by Rosberg for his interview and Lando turned to watch him go, fighting to keep his expression from looking too fond. When he saw pictures later, he wasn’t sure how effective he’d been. 

When they’re finally, finally released from the paddock and on the way back to their rooms, Oscar casually asked Lando, “Hey, can you stop by mine really quick? There’s something I want to show you.” 

Lando shrugged and followed him in. As Lando locked the door behind him, a hand snuck around his head and covered his eyes.

“Osc?” he asked, a bit nervous. “What are you doing?”

“Keep your eyes closed and turn around,” was the reply. 

He swallowed and obeyed, leaning his back against the door and keeping his eyes shut tightly despite the palm pressing against his eyelids. 

A breath of silence. 

“Osc—” Lando began. 

A soft pair of lips connecting with his cut off the rest of his words. He gasped into the kiss and before he could get over his surprise, they pulled away. 

“Consider this to be me celebrating my first win,” Oscar laughed, a bit breathy. 

It took a second for Lando to remember how to use his lungs again. Fuck. He wanted to make the hitch in Oscar’s voice worse. “What happened to taking it slow?” he squeaked out. 

Lando felt Oscar shrug against him. “We’re F1 drivers, slow isn’t in our vocabulary,” he teased.

The Brit gaped at him for a second underneath the warm palm covering his eyes, before bursting into ecstatic laughter. 

“Well then,” he finally managed. “I’d hardly call that a proper celebration. Think it should be a bit longer than that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Mmm.” 

Oscar acquiesced, one hand cradling Lando’s jaw while the other remained planted over his eyes. This time, Lando pushed back, smiling against Oscar’s mouth as the Australian giggled. His lips felt so good on his, soft and plush. They must be growing red with the force, Lando thought dazedly as his arms drifted up to loop around Oscar’s neck. 

Each brush of their mouths sent electricity shooting through him. He was getting dizzy from every shock, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He could stomach anything as long as he got to keep feeling Oscar’s lips against his. 

On the next press, he bit down lightly on Oscar’s bottom lip, relishing in the small moan he received in return. He smirked into the kiss and Oscar bit him back in punishment. 

“Ass,” Oscar whispered in the stolen breaths between kisses. 

“You love it,” Lando whispered back. 

“Unfortunately,” Oscar deadpanned, but Lando could hear the undercurrent of amusement. 

Being human meant that they did need to breathe, so with a reluctant separation, they pulled apart. Lando could feel Oscar’s panting breaths and the humid air they generated against his lips. His own mouth was slightly parted, lips tingling from the onslaught of sensations he’d just been subjected to. It felt so much more intense than any other kisses he’d had, possibly because of his lack of sight. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Oscar sighed. 

“What, win a race, or kiss me?” 

Oscar laughed, before kissing him again. “Does that answer your question?” 

Lando chased his lips as he pulled away, pouting, before saying, “Mm, I think I need to get that again. Bigger sample size and all that maths stuff.”

He could practically hear the Australian roll his eyes. “You’ve never been told ‘no’ in your life, have you?” Oscar asked, giggling. 

Lando smirked at him, pulling him closer as he wrapped his arms tighter around Oscar’s neck. “Are you going to be the first one to?” 

“Absolutely not,” was Oscar’s answer before Lando was tugged down for another heated press of soft lips against his own. 

Lando wanted, so much, to open his eyes and trace the constellations of moles and beauty marks scattering Oscar’s skin with his lips. He wanted to see the dimples form underneath his touch, watch as pale skin darkened with marks from Lando’s mouth. He wanted to hear every kind of laugh Oscar could let out, find out his favorite color, food, songs, anything that made him happy. 

He wanted and he wanted, but it wasn’t about what he wanted. 

Like he’d resolved back in the bar in Japan, this was about what Oscar needed. Lando would gladly give it, whether it was time, distance, or love. 

And as he kissed Oscar again, their mouths sliding easily against each other’s, Lando knew that he would be happy with everything given back to him, as long as he still had Oscar by his side.

o-o-o

Lando Norris' Checklist

• Kiss my rookie fucking teammate (x10?) 

Chapter Text

Following Qatar were one and half of the happiest weeks of Lando’s life. All of a sudden, they were Lando and Oscar again, joking, teasing, and laughing like nothing had happened. 

Well, something did happen, but that wasn’t for the rest of the team to know. Not yet, at least. Not until after they got some time together to enjoy just for themselves. 

They enjoyed their first few days of break together, finding stolen moments together to grab a coffee, maybe FaceTime at night. 

Oscar returned to primarily wearing the mask and sunglasses with Lando when they were out around Monaco. But when he and Lando were alone, the sunglasses slipped off, tucked safely into his shirt with no risk of being trampled on. 

Lando was more than delighted, since all the exposed skin meant he could watch just how red Oscar could whenever he was flustered. Lando’s favorite method to encourage such a reaction was through a dirty joke. They never failed to get the Aussie red as a tomato. 

One time after one such joke, though, he made sure to ask if Oscar was okay with it in a hushed undertone. The Aussie let out a shy nod, mumbling under his breath that he quite liked them. So with Oscar’s approval, it quickly became his new favorite pastime, especially because he could say so little, but still get the Australian to flush. 

After those first few days, they were called back to the MTC for a couple days. There, they jostled to get into the sim, borderline tackling each other as they fought for the seat. Lando almost always won, sliding into the seat at the last second, though there were only a number of times that Oscar could “trip” right before he reached the sim and still have it be believable. 

And if the team noticed that their two drivers seemed closer than normal, they wisely decided not to say anything. 

When they returned to Monaco, they did their best to keep it slow. Casually training together, playing padel, or lounging on Max’s yacht one hot afternoon with the owner of said yacht and Charles. 

“You two are disgusting,” Max had commented fondly to Lando as the Dutchman sipped on a colorful drink. 

The two of them sat just inside the yacht, protected from the blazing heat outside by thick glass doors. They enjoyed the cooler temperature as they watched Charles and Oscar lounge on the main deck couch outside. 

Max continued, “Thank god you two got your shit together. I don’t know how many more longing heart-eyes I could take from either of you.” 

Lando gave him a half-hearted shove, too lazy to really put any weight behind it. “It was all thanks to you, mate,” Lando sighed, staring happily at his…

He struggled for a word, before settling on just… Oscar. His Oscar. Yeah, he liked that. 

His Oscar wore a black mask and sunglasses, the dark colors on his face a stark contrast against the pale blue button down and white linen shorts he wore. He looked good, a few buttons undone to expose a bit of his pale, smooth chest and the shorts riding up just enough to give Lando a look at his deliciously thick thighs. 

“Besides,” Lando said, “you should look at you and Charles. Not like you’re much better, Mr. My-Hand-Needs-to-go-Around-His-Waist.” 

Max laughed and shook his head, but his eyes stayed locked onto Charles’ relaxed form, a fond smile written across his face. “I cannot even say you are wrong.” 

A comfortable silence descended over them as they watched Charles and Oscar interact. Oscar had thrown his head back at something funny Charles said and the familiar gasping sound of Charles’ laughter was loud enough to be heard through the glass. 

Lando took a sip of his own drink, condensation coating his fingers and dripping off the glass onto his shorts. 

“Genuinely, Max, thank you,” Lando said quietly. “I really don’t think I could’ve gotten here without your help.” 

Max glanced over at him. “It was nothing,” he said, reaching over a hand to ruffle Lando’s curls, despite the squawk of protest he received. “I just pushed you in the right direction. You took all of the steps to get here yourself.” 

“Still, thanks for helping me get my head out of my ass.” 

“Any time.” 

They clinked their glasses together. 

“Besides,” Max teased a second later, his eyes glinting with mirth, “you’re so shit at directions, I think you would’ve gone further up instead of out if Charles and I didn’t step in.” 

“Fuck you,” Lando laughed. “I was trying to have a nice moment and you ruined it!” 

Max chuckled in response, taking a long drink. A few minutes later, Oscar and Charles joined them, complaining about the heat. But from the way Oscar immediately pushed into the booth to bully his way under Lando’s arm, he had the distinct suspicion that something else had compelled them inside. 

Despite the new radiator that was Oscar’s body being pressed against him, Lando sighed in contentment and relaxed back into the cushions. The expression on his face was later described to him by Max as “horrifically sweet and sugary enough to give someone instant cavities.” 

He found that he didn’t mind that description at all. 

o-o-o

Of course, there was only so much they could do in public before it got suspicious how much time they spent together, so much of their actual time together was in Lando’s flat. 

They played FIFA and COD, both of which Oscar sucked spectacularly at. Other times they would jump into the newest release of the F1 game and race with fans under fake names, giggling to themselves at how shit the game was compared to the real thing. 

They spent a few slow nights together, Oscar squished underneath Lando’s arm as they watched The Great British Bake Off. Oscar, Lando was quickly learning, was something of a Bake Off connoisseur and would frequently mutter insults under his breath when a contestant presented something less than ideal to the judges. 

“What an idiot,” he would huff. “There’s no way his scones’ll be done with the time he’s got left. Besides, that flavor combo is shit.” 

And Lando would just gaze down at him and laugh, then be completely unsurprised when Oscar’s predictions came true. 

As he looked around his flat, Lando still couldn’t quite believe how easily Oscar had begun to slot himself into his life. 

The space once filled with memories of regret and sorrow were now filled with the light that was Oscar. His shoes were in the foyer where Lando sobbed for hours, his jacket hung on the back of the chair where Max had sat and lectured him. 

It was a dizzying contrast, one that sent Lando reeling the first time he had Oscar over. But Oscar, sweet, amazing, incredible Oscar, grounded him in a second, pulling him over to the couch and ranting about the latest drama he’d seen on Twitter about a contestant from the show. 

Lando huffed out a laugh and let himself be tugged over, falling in a tangled mess of limbs on top of Oscar before they situated themselves to start the newest episode. 

The first time Oscar came over, once the episode finished, they chatted for a little longer, before Oscar reluctantly peeled himself off of Lando and headed for the door. He pulled on his shoes, apologizing for the fact that he had morning training with Kim and couldn’t spend the night since it was hard for him to comfortably sleep with the mask. 

Lando apologized right back, telling Oscar that he had nothing to apologize for. He fussed over him, making sure he had his phone, wallet, keys, hoodie. Though Lando wouldn’t have minded if Oscar left the last one. 

Oscar nodded as he patted his pockets, ensuring that, yes, he did have everything. He got one hand on the doorknob before Lando caught his other hand and spun him around. Lando pressed a goodbye kiss to Oscar’s forehead. 

“Love you,” Lando said against his skin. 

“Love you too,” Oscar whispered back with pink coloring the tips of his ears. 

The second time Oscar came over, they had a similar routine. This week, though, they watched Cars instead of GBBO , as they hadn’t released the next episode yet, much to Oscar’s disappointment. 

But Cars was a more than adequate stand-in and gave Lando more time to run his hands through Oscar’s hair as the Aussie laid his head on Lando’s lap, practically purring like a cat. 

When the move came to an end, Oscar stood up again, stretching his arms above his head as he headed for the door. As much as Lando hated watching him leave the flat, he had to admit that the view he got on Oscar’s way out wasn’t all that bad. 

Again, as Oscar was about to slip out, Lando caught him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“Get home safe,” he said. 

Oscar nodded and pressed his forehead against Lando’s. 

“I’ll text you when I’m back home,” he promised. 

The third time Oscar came over, after the GBBO credits rolled, they found themselves on a very comfortable couch. So naturally, they ended up horizontal, lazily making out as Lando kept his eyes firmly shut. 

And, as was now tradition, once they were done, Lando pressed a goodbye kiss to Oscar’s forehead before the Aussie slipped out and returned to his own apartment. 

As he watched Oscar’s shrinking form through the window, Lando came to the abrupt realization that this was one of the first times they’d kissed since Qatar. It was the slowest Lando had ever moved with someone. But, he thought as Oscar’s shape disappeared into the darkness between the streetlights, it just meant that he savored every second they had together even more. 

o-o-o

Their temporary paradise soon came to a close and before they knew it, they were shipped off to Austin, Texas for the United States Grand Prix. The two McLaren drivers were thrilled to discover that the stereotype that “everything’s bigger in Texas” proved true, from the fanfare surrounding the race, to the portion sizes of their authentic American barbecue. 

They had the brisket, spare ribs, and burnt ends delivered to their separate rooms, then FaceTimed to enjoy it together. Oscar kept his camera off, but that didn’t stop Lando from being able to hear all of his little groans of satisfaction as he bit down into the succulent meat. 

Lando did his best not to pay attention to all of Oscar’s noises, zeroing in on how delicious their meal was. The food, Lando could admit as he wolfed down another rib, was something that Americans got right. Oscar’s sounds were not made for nothing after all.

But god, were they distracting.

In between bites of food, they talked aimlessly, discussing the weather and how Logan must be happy to be home. And Daniel, Lando tacked on at the end with a snort. His old teammate did seem way more at home in America than anywhere else Lando had seen him. 

Oscar made a noise of agreement, before abruptly switching the conversation.

“God, Lando, this is so good,” Oscar gushed with a groan. Lando shifted slightly in his seat. “Like… of course we’ve got the barbie back at home, but they just do it different here.” He took another bite and let out a breathless, “Fuck.”

It was then that Lando began to suspect that, just maybe, Oscar wasn’t as innocent as he was purporting. 

To test his theory, he “accidentally” smeared some extra sauce on his fingers after finishing the next rib. In the middle of Oscar’s next sentence, Lando proceeded to lick the viscous liquid off his fingers as he stared directly into the camera under the pretense of listening to what Oscar was saying. He laved his tongue over each digit with explicit care, cleaning every square centimeter of his skin to ensure not a single drop was left behind. 

The choked inhale he heard come through the phone was more than gratifying. Lando couldn’t stop the smirk that worked its way over his face.

“All good, Osc?” Lando asked, pausing mid-lick, his hand poised in the air by his face. 

“Yep,” Oscar squeaked out. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I dunno, mate, you just sounded a little surprised there,” Lando shrugged and resumed licking. When he got to his index finger, he sucked the tip and pulled off with a little pop . 

“God, you’re such an arse,” Oscar whined. Lando smirked, knowing that Oscar knew that Lando had caught on to his game. 

Lando winked at the camera. “Pot, meet kettle.” 

Oscar let out a long sigh that said he knew he’d been beaten and Lando let out a loud cackle.  

o-o-o

They’re set up in an empty conference room in the hotel to film the video. It was a “finish the lyrics” video, where they’d be given a few lyrics to a song and guess the next few words. 

Oscar showed up in his balaclava, sans sunglasses, exposing his soft, sleepy gaze. He sat at one of the many empty tables and leaned forward to slouch down, resting his chin on his arms. He yawned as he watched Lando get fussed over by a makeup artist at another table. 

“Still adjusting to the time difference?” Lando with a raised eyebrow asked as soft bristles smoothed powder over his face. 

Oscar buried his head in his arms. “Yeah, never gets easier, no matter how much we do it,” he sighed, voice muffled against his skin. 

When Lando was released from the chair, he ambled over to Oscar and pulled up a chair as the crew bustled around them, setting up cameras and lights. 

“For the time change, what I usually do is try and tire myself out during the day so I can sleep right away,” Lando advised, tipping the chair backwards onto two legs and propping his feet onto the table. Oscar glanced at his feet and Lando just barely saw the disgusted wrinkle of his nose peeking out from beneath the black fabric. 

“And how, exactly, do you tire yourself out?” Oscar asked, still eyeing his feet with no small amount of distaste. 

Lando smirked and wiggled his feet to get more comfortable before propping his hands behind his head. He then slowly raked his eyes up and down Oscar’s body. 

“There’s a few different ways that come to mind,” he leered, watching in delight as the visible parts of Oscar’s cheeks flamed and he buried his face back into his arms. 

Retribution came a second later when Oscar kicked one of the precariously tilted legs of Lando’s chair. The Brit shrieked and scrambled to get his feet off the table, arms windmilling through the air in a futile attempt at being a bird. 

“You absolute dick,” Lando let out an exaggerated gasp once he regained his balance, with all four legs of the chair firmly on the ground. He held a dramatic hand over his heart. “You could’ve killed me!” 

Oscar’s shoulders were shaking with laughter, his face still buried in his arms. He propped his chin on his arms a second later, head tilted to the side as he continued to giggle, impish and bright. 

Lando could imagine the wide, bunny-toothed smile forming underneath the mask, etching smile lines into his face and carving a permanent reminder of his joy into his skin, like a river eroding a canyon. 

I can’t wait to grow old with him, Lando thought for a brief, insane moment as he watched Oscar’s eyes sparkle with mischievousness. 

A second later, a crew member called them over to the couch where they’d be filming and the thought dissipated. Lando received a cowboy hat and Oscar got an orange feathered boa and an inflatable electric guitar. The Australian let out a snort as he wrapped the garish papaya around his shoulders. It blended in perfectly to his team polo. 

“How do I look?” Oscar asked with a raised eyebrow and spread arms. 

Lando plopped his cowboy hat onto his own head, before glancing at Oscar and saying, “Like a nice feathery papaya.” 

“Perfect,” Oscar stated with a straight face. “That’s exactly what I was going for.” 

They sat on the couch at a respectable distance for two teammates to be. A small laptop sat on a table in front of them, predictably holding the songs and their lyrics and Lando couldn’t stop himself from sneaking a quick peek at the first set of lyrics. 

Oscar caught him looking and gave him a small shove. 

“Stop cheating!” he scolded under his breath, eyes crinkled with mirth. 

“I’m not!” Lando protested as he batted Oscar’s hands away. “I was just taking advantage of my resources!” 

Oscar rolled his eyes as they were each handed a papaya microphone. The woman behind the camera gave a countdown and the marker was clapped. 

As usual, Lando began the intro. 

“Hey everybody, we’re here in Austin, Texas with Dell for a ‘finish the lyrics’ video!” Lando said cheerfully to the camera. “And we’re joined today by no other than…” 

He gestured a hand towards Oscar, who gave a small wave to the camera and raised the orange foam towards his mouth. 

“OP81, and…” Oscar copied Lando’s hand movement, swinging the attention back to Lando. 

“Lando Norris! We’re going to be reading some lyrics, then have to guess the next one. And”—he glanced at the laptop—“it looks like we’ve got quite a few country songs in here.”  

“This should be interesting,” Oscar deadpanned, “considering how much I love country songs.” 

“Aw, but mate, I thought you were a born and bred outback Aussie! Down unda’ and fighting the ‘roos,” Lando mocked in a terrible Australian accent. The camera was forgotten as he watched Oscar scoff and shake his head disbelievingly. 

“Right, because Melbourne is so unbelievably untamed and wild.” 

“I’m sure you rode an ostrich to primary and you just don’t want to tell me, P.” Lando pointed an accusatory finger at Oscar. 

The Australian raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You caught me,” he said tonelessly. “His name was Ayrton.” 

“And there it is!” Lando crowed with a clap of his hands. “But it’s no matter how many songs you know, OP, because you’ve got me! I know quite a few country songs.” 

“Really?” Oscar scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t peg you for the type.” 

“What do you peg me for, then?” Lando asked, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t help himself. Oscar just made it too easy. 

Oscar hastily cleared his throat. “Mmm,” he said, looking Lando up and down with a squint. “If I had to guess, I’d say your type is stuff like that Sabrina Carpenter song you’ve always got playing in your driver’s room.” 

His words snapped Lando out of his daze and reminded him that they were, in fact, not alone and were very much being filmed. 

“That was supposed to be confidential information, P, I can’t believe you would share that!” Lando gasped with faux horror, slipping back into his filming personality and looking back towards the camera. “But ignoring how P just exposed my listening history, let’s find out just how many lyrics we can finish, starting with number one”—he leaned in towards the computer—“‘Shan-ya Twine.’” 

“Mm, yeah, that cannot be the right pronunciation,” Oscar muttered. Lando waved a hand towards him in a silent “fuck off” and kept reading the given lyrics until he got to the blank portion.

They gave it their best shot for a lot of them, often failing miserably. But it didn’t really matter to them, both drivers couldn’t stop giggling at their “attempts” to finish the lyrics that were more wild than the bucking broncos they saw at the rodeos on TV. 

Finally, they got to an easy one. 

“Oh, Taylor Swift! We’d better get this one right, P, otherwise we’ll be laughingstocks,” Lando warned. “‘You’ll be the prince and I’ll be the princess, it’s a love story baby just say…’” 

“‘Yes’,” Oscar finished in the cutest voice Lando had ever heard. Lando looked over at his teammate, a disbelieving smile working its way across his face. 

“Wow,” Lando said softly, his grin pitching his voice higher like he was talking to a small cat. “Good job, there, we nailed it.” 

Oscar’s eyes creased as he turned to face Lando, before looking forward at the camera. 

“That’s one!” Oscar proudly announced, holding up his pointer finger. “We’re on the board.” 

Lando felt his smile broaden as he reached over to press play on laptop to confirm they got the lyrics right. He softly sang along with Taylor’s words, papaya microphone held close to his mouth. Lando glanced back at Oscar for a second, bobbing his head with the beat. The Aussie was gazing at him with nothing less than pure affection and warmth in his eyes. 

Lando felt heat rise on his cheeks and promptly looked back at the screen to click to the next song. His lips twitched, fighting a bashful smile as he continued mouthing along. 

It seemed he finally knew what love looked like. He just still couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have it directed at him. 

They filmed the rest of the video with more than a few notable moments.

The first came when Oscar quietly sang along to “Country Roads”. Lando gasped in delight and proudly proclaimed that this was the first time anyone had heard Oscar sing at McLaren. The Aussie threw his head back onto the cushions with a shy laugh. 

“It’s a breakthrough moment,” he deadpanned into the microphone a second later. “Glad you’re all here to witness it.” 

Another was when Oscar immediately got the lyrics to “Old Town Road.” 

“‘I’m gonna ride ‘til I can’t no more,’” Oscar announced, staring directly at Lando, a mischievous look in his eyes. 

Oh, Lando could play this game too. He smirked back at Oscar and cocked an eyebrow. “Wow, didn’t know you were an equestrian, P.” 

Oscar shrugged and smiled. “It’s one of my secret talents.” 

Cheeky little thing, Lando thought as he leaned forward off the couch to play the song. 

“You’ll have to show me how you ride some time,” Lando murmured lowly to Oscar as Lil Nas X’s voice filtered through the speakers. He wanted to slap himself immediately, because how had he just let those words slip off his tongue in the middle of a filming session? 

Hastily, he looked up at the camera and said, “My sister is always prattling on about her riding stuff, so I reckon I can give OP here a few pointers.” 

Then came the part where Miley Cyrus’ “The Climb” was next on their list. 

Oscar looked at, a small peak forming between his eyebrows. “I know Billy Ray Cyrus…” 

“Have you not watched Hannah Montana? ” Lando turned to face Oscar, mouth dropped open in shock. 

“Well, I have, but—”

“‘It’s the cli-i-i-mb!’” Lando sang, voice cracking halfway through the last word. Oscar giggled like he always did. “‘Always gonna be another mountain…’” 

“Ohh! It’s that song, okay,” Oscar exclaimed, his eyes lighting up in recognition. 

“Mate, I can’t believe you almost didn’t get that one,” Lando said, shaking his head in disappointment. However, his grin betrayed how unserious he was and he could hear the Australian’s huff of laughter like usual. “You’d be a disappointment to 2000s kids everywhere!” 

“Good thing I didn’t, then. How ever would I bear more criticism?” 

“Agreed, I think you had quite enough earlier this year.” It was a cheeky jab at Oscar’s infamous Alpine tweet, one that Lando hoped made the cut in editing. 

The rest of the notable moments, at least in Lando’s memory, were Oscar continuing to look at him with literal hearts in his eyes. Every time he glanced over to see the Australian staring back with unbridled softness, he felt himself melt a little more. 

It didn’t help that as the filming progressed, each time Oscar tossed his head back while giggling, his entire body shaking with the force of his laughter, he ended up leaning a bit closer to Lando. It was subtle, but as the Australian relaxed more into the couch, he rested his left elbow on a cushion between them, sending him slanting in Lando’s direction. 

It was unfortunately distracting and Lando found himself struggling not to also lean into Oscar’s space, like he had on those slow nights back in Monaco, especially when Oscar looked at him, gaze full of unadulterated adoration.

But with the power of media training at his side, he was able to restrain himself to just angling his body towards Oscar as he slouched back into the couch cushions. 

He’d get the real thing back in the hotel room, anyways, where there weren’t any cameras to interrupt him. 

o-o-o

The race went splendid for Lando, but ended in a DNF for Oscar after contact with Ocon in the opening lap. Frustrating for the Aussie, especially right after their success in Qatar. 

Lando heard quite the earful from Oscar after the race in Lando’s room, where the normally-reserved Aussie was hurling colorful insult after colorful insult at the Frenchman’s name. He did his best to comfort Oscar, but he knew just as much as Oscar that there was nothing more to be done and what had happened had happened. All that was left was to move on to the next race. 

And so they did.

They raced in Mexico, Brazil, and Vegas, before finally, finally, wrapping up the season in Abu Dhabi. They had mixed results with all of them. Lando managed another podium in Brazil, but suffered his own DNF at Vegas two weeks later. Oscar hovered around the back half of the top ten for most of the races, but couldn’t quite get it back into the points in Brazil. 

In Abu Dhabi, they finished fifth and sixth, Lando followed by Oscar, to a rather lukewarm end to the season. 

Though, Lando thought as he watched Max celebrate his victory and his third WDC, considering there was only one non-Red Bull race winner this entire year , he supposed that they’d done well enough for themselves. Especially with Oscar only being in his rookie year. 

As much as Lando loved his job, he couldn’t help but look forward to winter break and the free time to finally spend with Oscar back home. 

For the first few days of the winter break, they let themselves separate and take a few days, just by themselves, to relax and take their first deep breath of air since the summer break. But as soon as those few days had passed, Lando was thrilled to look down at his phone and see a text from Oscar, asking if he was free to watch the finale of GBBO that had just premiered. 

Like he had in those blissful two weeks after Qatar, Oscar promptly showed up on Lando’s doorstep at 8pm, clad in his mask and hoodie, an excited light in his eyes and a bag of popcorn in his hands. He held it up like a cat proudly showcasing its kill and Lando couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped as he made the connection. 

Soon enough they were tumbled together on the couch, Lando sitting up as Oscar laid his head into his lap. As Oscar queued up the episode, Lando lazily ran his fingers through Oscar’s soft mop of hair. The popcorn was forgotten as Oscar kept his eyes glued to the screen, but Lando found his gaze wandering more frequently. 

Oscar’s head was a comforting warmth in his lap, and every time he looked down to see Oscar arguing with the TV about how stupid a contestant on Great British Bake Off’s eclairs were, he swore that his heart thumped a little harder and felt a little fuller. 

But he couldn’t shake this nagging question in the back of his mind. 

So once the episode was done and the credits played softly in the background, Lando peered down at Oscar and hesitantly asked, “Are we… dating?” 

Oscar twisted to look up at him, his eyes still burning with hatred for the sad, underbaked eclair a contestant had thought worthy to present to the judges. But it extinguished as he processed Lando’s words. His brows furrowed slightly.

“I should hope so,” he said drolly, “since I’m not really in the habit of confessing my love to all of my teammates or necking them weekly.” 

Though his tone was light, there was an undercurrent of concern in his words that made something protective flare in Lando. With the hand not wrapped around Oscar’s shoulders, Lando reached up to Oscar’s face and smoothed out the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb. 

“Had a feeling, just wanted to be sure,” Lando laughed, trying to break the tension. “Guess that means I can call you my koala now.” 

Oscar wriggled out of his arms at that, fake retching as he batted Lando’s hands away as the Brit reached for him. 

“Just for that, I’m keeping my tree-hugging instincts to myself,” Oscar sniffed from the other side of the couch, but the creases by his eyes betrayed his mirth. “Keep your lynx paws away from me!” 

Lando gasped in faux outrage, reaching for Oscar with said lynx paws. “I thought you liked my hands, you muppet!” 

He grabbed Oscar’s feet and dragged the other man back to him by the ankles. Oscar shrieked with laughter and kicked back against Lando’s grip. 

“After all,” Lando continued with a smirk as he fought Oscar, “you weren’t exactly complaining last week when I had my hands around your—” 

The rest of his sentence was cut off with a feathery whump as Oscar hurled a pillow directly into his face. Lando spluttered in disbelief and his grip around Oscar’s feet loosened enough for the Aussie to wiggle out and dart for Lando’s bedroom, cackling the whole way.  

o-o-o

Whenever they went out, they were careful, of course, because Monaco was small and rumors flew fast. The public frequently saw them grabbing dinner together, playing padel, or training together, sometimes they including other drivers to throw off the scent and ensure that as far as the world knew, they were just two teammates hanging out and spending winter break together. 

And they weren’t entirely wrong. Slowly, over numerous nights out and many nights in, Lando was given the opportunity to learn everything he wanted to and more about Oscar. 

Previous details that were held close to the chest were given away freely, like how Oscar had three younger sisters, his favorite color was green, he absolutely loved chocolate, and he never used a comb. The last one was something Lando had complained about for a long time, citing his own intense curl routine as evidence for how unfair it was that Oscar could just wake up and look like that. 

There were other things Lando learned, too, during those late nights when the TV turned off and they just talked for hours on end. He came to realize that Oscar, despite his calm attitude towards racing and in general, was still anxious about his entrance into F1. From usurping his universally beloved countryman, to the lawsuit fiasco with Alpine, it felt like everything was working against him, Oscar explained one night as he laid his head on a pillow in Lando’s lap, hands waving through the air to emphasize his points. 

Then with his debut race ending in a DNF, well, it just felt like he was doomed from the start, that he was another F2 champion who wouldn’t be able to make the adjustment to F1. He was terrified of letting down his family, who had sacrificed so much for him to make it where he was, and making all of their time and money worthless.  

Lando listened to it all, nodding along and murmuring words of encouragement as he ran his fingers through Oscar’s hair. He understood, he truly did. Lando reminisced about his own fear during his rookie season, with Carlos as his teammate. The Spaniard was far more established, with four years experience under his belt. A strong record from his Toro Rosso and Renault days proved him to be a very competent driver who, when Lando started his rookie season, outclassed the Brit in every way. 

It hadn’t helped that he had a bit of a hero-worship crush on Carlos too, at first. He hastily emphasized that it was long gone, had been for years, and was relieved to feel Oscar immediately relax against him. 

Oscar then huffed out a laugh and said that was exactly how he felt about Lando at first. Hero-worship crush included. 

“Really?” Lando asked disbelievingly, fingers pausing mid-stroke above Oscar’s head. 

“Yes, you idiot. Did you think I was doing all of that name-reveal, face-showing with the rest of my teammates, back in Prema?” Oscar teased. He stretched his head up into Lando’s hand in a silent plea to continue, like a cat headbutting for attention. 

“Well maybe you were,” the Brit pouted, continuing to card his hands through Oscar’s soft locks. “How was I s’posed to know I was special?” 

Oscar rolled his eyes, settling back down into the pillow with a contented sigh. “Well you’re hearing it now: you’re special, Lando. Probably one of the most special people in my life right now.” 

And Lando beamed down at him, radiant as the sun. 

o-o-o

Oscar groaned as he opened the front door to Lando’s flat, toeing off his shoes as Lando followed behind him. 

“As much as I love seeing the rest of the grid,” Oscar sighed, leaning against the wall, “it never gets less exhausting having to chat for three hours straight.” 

Lando let out a tired noise of agreement. 

“At least you had the balaclava, mate. There were only so many times I could fake-laugh at George’s jokes before he got suspicious.” 

“You’re just jealous you’re not as memeable as George,” Oscar snorted. 

Lando flipped him off as he beelined for the couch. Oscar lingered in the foyer. 

“Give me a second to change, I’ll be right out,” Oscar said, snagging a mask from a hook off the wall and slipping into the bathroom. “Pick something to watch in the meantime.” 

“‘Kay,” Lando murmured as he flopped onto the couch, burying his face into a throw pillow. He was exhausted, too. Like Oscar had said, he loved getting to see the other drivers, but sometimes, social batteries ran low and tonight was one of those nights. 

“What are we watching?” was Oscar’s muffled shout from the bathroom, urging Lando away from his pillowy heaven. 

He rolled over and fumbled for the remote. He sat up against the couch cushions, legs lazily propped onto the coffee table, and he turned on the TV. 

“Want to start Love is Blind? ” Lando yelled back as he opened Netflix.

“Sounds good!” Oscar called out, louder this time as he opened the door to the bathroom and the barrier between them vanished. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Lando saw Oscar come out of the bathroom and collapse down onto the couch next to him. 

Lando glanced down at the Aussie and smiled at the mop of mussed hair that greeted him, stark soft brown against the white of the couch. The Brit returned his attention to the TV to painstakingly type in the letters for Love is Blind, but had to switch hands as Oscar wormed his way under Lando’s arm. 

“Where are they this time?” Oscar asked, pressing his face into Lando’s chest. 

“I think Texas? But I’m not sure, I still need to find it,” Lando said, distractedly clicking through the alphabetized keyboard Netflix had for a search bar. What arseholes for not putting it on the home screen and making him look it up, Lando thought irritatedly. 

Oscar made a small noise of annoyance. With the arm wrapped around Oscar’s shoulders, Lando gave him a soft pinch on his tricep.  

“Brat,” he scoffed, but it held no heat. “I could look it up faster if I had my dominant hand back.” 

“But you’re so comfy,” Oscar whined. 

“Then you don’t get to complain about me going slow,” Lando scolded, but he wore a smile. This was the part of Oscar that nobody else got to see. As solid as Oscar’s PR-training was, as calm as he seemed on the track and in the videos, it all thinly veiled a needy dickhead who Lando absolutely adored. 

“What was that thing you said for the Quadrant video?” Oscar asked aloud, teasing. “‘Slow and hard,’ yeah?” 

Lando tugged his hair lightly, eliciting a soft “Hey!” from Oscar. 

His voice sounds clearer than normal, Lando offhandedly noticed as he queued the episode. Maybe he got a thinner mask?

The familiar thump of the Netflix intro echoed through the room and the dramatic introduction teasing all of the future drama to come began. As Lando listened, his gaze drifted downward, wanting to see what Oscar was thinking about the contestants so far. It was probably because he wore a mask the majority of the time, but it made it so his emotions were clear as day, written all over his face. 

But as Lando looked lower, his heart seized in his chest. Lando jerked away from Oscar with a gasp when he saw bare skin illuminated by the screen where the black mask should’ve been. 

He slammed his eyes shut and scrambled away from Oscar. Well, as far as he could on an already small couch. The dramatic stings still playing in the background from the introduction were only adding to the moment. 

“Osc— where’s— oh my god,” Lando yelped. His heart pounded in his ears as he slapped a hand over his eyes for good measure. He hadn’t seen much, but the image of the curve of his nose and that one mole on his cheek were already branded onto the backs of his eyelids. 

He turned away, tensed, waiting for Oscar to tell him that he was okay to look back. 

How had Oscar forgotten the mask? He was a faceless driver, for fuck’s sake, there was no logical explanation for how he would’ve made a mistake like that after so many years of caution. Was it something Lando did? Maybe… maybe Lando distracted him with talks of the show and somehow in the chaos it had slipped his mind? 

Lando kept waiting for Oscar to indicate that everything was okay, but all he heard was a loud wheeze from behind him. 

“Oh my god, that took you long enough!” Oscar laughed, almost crying. “I thought I’d come out of the bathroom and you’d look up, but you were so focused on getting the show ready!” 

There was some shuffling on the couch from behind him. The noise of the TV stopped and Lando waited with bated breath for whatever was going to happen next. 

He startled slightly when he felt Oscar press a warm hand to Lando’s cheek, still chuckling a bit, and slowly turned Lando’s head back towards him. Once he was facing Oscar again, another hand crept up and slid over his clasped hands. Both began to slowly peel his fingers off his eyes, slowly lowering them down. 

Lando squeezed his eyes shut, like how he did on a roller coaster when the apex arrived and passed and the world fell out from underneath him, swooping his stomach and rattling his bones. It was a feeling not dissimilar to what was happening now.

“Lando,” Oscar prompted softly, breath ghosting over Lando’s face. He kept Lando’s hands in his own, lightly squeezing them once. “You can open your eyes.” 

“Are you, like, 100% sure?” Lando asked, his voice pinched and squeaky. His heart was still galloping in his chest, beating against his sternum and threatening to break the bone. “Cause once I open my eyes we can’t go back.” 

Another huff of laughter sent a warm exhale across Lando’s face. 

“Yes, Lando, I’m sure,” Oscar said, his voice tinged with amusement. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” 

“Why… why now?” 

A shift of fabric, like Oscar was shrugging. “It just felt right.” 

“I— I’m not going to lie, Oscar, I kind of expected more of a ceremony than this,” Lando laughed hysterically. 

Oscar scoffed lightly. “You know that’s not me,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Lando whispered. “That’s not. Should’ve known that from the time you told me your name while you were running out the door.” 

Oscar laughed but didn’t say another word. Slowly, like he was stepping out of a dark cave and into the sun, Lando opened his eyes. 

The first thing he noticed as his eyes fully opened were how many moles Oscar had all over his face. Of course he knew that they were dappled all over his skin from the portions of his face he’d seen, but he hadn’t been aware of just how many there were, or how right he’d been about the constellations they made. 

But their subtle beauty was immediately outshined by the radiance of his smile. He’d caught a glimpse of it back in the MTC, that amazing, incredible day when Oscar bared the bottom half of his face, but he hadn’t witnessed it again since that moment. 

Here it was, though, framed by deep smile lines and dimples. 

Lando’s gaze didn’t stop there. He traced the curve of his nose, the gentle shape of his face, his deep-set eyes shaded by full brows. Soft pink lips stretched wide over his bunny-toothed smile, even the fucking shape of his ear connecting smoothly to the cut of his jaw. The bits and pieces of his face that Lando had been given over the past few months finally fell into place, connecting and snapping together to reveal the gorgeous, completed puzzle. 

He’s beautiful, Lando thought dazedly, his mouth gaping slightly. 

Oscar bit his lip, the white of his teeth overtaking the light pink of his bottom lip for a moment. 

He glanced away, before looking back at Lando up through his lashes.

“Hi,” Oscar said softly with a bashful grin. “I’m Oscar Piastri. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Lando broke into a wide smile at that. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lando replied, raising one of Oscar’s clasped hands to kiss the back of it, never once taking his eyes off Oscar’s face. After months and months of getting a taste, but never a full bite, they were finally here. 

But, Lando thought as Oscar laughed, a happy flush coloring his cheeks, I would have waited for eternity for him.  

Lando lowered Oscar’s hand back into his lap, releasing it and raising his hand to cup Oscar’s cheek. He could feel the heat radiating from his face as, for the first time in their relationship, he laid his hands on soft, unobstructed skin. Oscar leaned into his touch, nuzzling his head further into Lando’s hand, still smiling, his eyes as adoring as the moon looking at the sun. 

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Lando breathed, running a thumb over Oscar’s cheek. “Thank you.” 

He felt Oscar’s flush before he saw it, a burst of warmth against the palm of his hand and with a broad grin, he pulled Oscar in for a kiss.

Oscar went easily, practically falling into Lando’s lap in his desperation to get closer. He pushed and pulled against Lando’s lips like the tides, and Lando followed his motions eagerly, a zealous disciple for his newfound god. 

They were both startled by the sound of Oscar’s phone vibrating on the table. 

Oscar seemed content with ignoring it, pulling Lando in again as the buzzing stopped, only to begin again a second later. And then again, after that. 

With an irritated groan, Oscar clambered off Lando to check his phone. 

His eyes widened comedically. 

“Oh fuck, it’s Logan,” he laughed disbelievingly. “Oh my god, you’re not going to believe this.” 

“What?” Lando demanded, sitting up on his elbows. 

“Alex asked him if he wanted to go to Thailand with him next week and he’s freaking out.” 

Lando snorted. “So you mean to say, he’s been fine with sticking his tongue down Alex’s throat in clubs, but now he’s scared of a vacation?” 

“That’s what I was confused about!” Oscar exclaimed. “ I literally told him that Alex could not be any more head-over-heels for him, but he was convinced that Alex just wanted to hookup.” 

“You’re right, he is; why would Logan think that?” 

“Because of the club thing! Alex never asked him out outside of the clubs, so he just assumed it was a club thing.” 

“Oh my god,” Lando slapped a hand to his face. “We’re friends with idiots, aren’t we?” 

“I’m sure they’d say the same thing about us.” 

“Ugh, I can’t even argue against that.” 

Oscar laughed and put his phone back on the table. 

“I’ll help him with his crisis tomorrow,” Oscar sighed as he crawled back on top of Lando. His eyes sparkled with that familiar look he got whenever he did something he was really proud of, whether it be winning the sprint or surprising Lando with a dirty joke. “I’ve got more pressing matters, at the moment.” 

Lando grinned up at him, still admiring every inch of Oscar’s face. “Glad to know I’m so important.” 

“Of course you are, you muppet,” Oscar rolled his eyes and pressed their lips together once again. 

o-o-o

“And OP81, the man from Melbourne, wins in Abu Dhabi to take home the 2028 World Championship! ” the commentator’s voice shouted through the microphone. “The first F1 driver born in the new millennium, the first Australian champion since Alan Jones, please welcome the newest Champion of the World, OP81!” 

Lando could barely pull the car into his second place spot on the track from the tears welling in his eyes. He just knew Oscar was screaming right now, his reserved personality breaking for just an instant to declare his pride and excitement, for just a moment. 

It had been a long season, full of ups and downs as they, like usual, balanced the difficulties of fighting for the championship while dating. But, like they had for the past four years, they made it through. And, as Lando cheered loudly for his teammate and boyfriend, he reckoned that with each year they did this, it got easier and easier. 

He would never dream of letting Oscar pass him, of course, but there was no longer any of the bitterness that Lando fought with in 2024, after their first on-track scrap in Hungary. Lando also supposed that winning his own championship in 2026 had helped as well. 

But, most importantly, now, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of pride for his Oscar. 

He’d done it, he’d done it, he’d done it.

Lando let out a loud whoop like he’d won the championship, despite trailing behind Oscar to finish in P3 in the standings. Charles had been usurped from his 2027 position as the world champion by his adopted son (something Lando still teased Oscar about) and had to contend with 2nd place, while Max had displayed a masterclass of driving and managed to drag his increasingly testy Red Bull all the way up to P4, while teammate Liam Lawson languished at P8. 

It was a testament to his skill as a driver that he was still able to get the car that high into the points, but Lando had a sneaking suspicion that, after this year, Max would eagerly be looking to sign for another team. 

None of that mattered, though, as he climbed out of the car in his P2 spot and slunk off to the sidelines to watch. 

Lando pulled his helmet and balaclava off to see Oscar still sitting in the car, probably in a state of disbelief. He pulled off his gloves carefully, first his left, then his right, placing them reverently to his left. Lando could see his hands trembling slightly as he released the Nomex. 

He longed to rush over, help his world champion out of the car, but he held himself back, letting this glorious moment belong solely to Oscar. 

Oscar gripped the halo, his pale, slender fingers starkly contrasting the black and papaya carbon fiber, as he pulled himself out of the car. He gingerly climbed out, placing each foot with special precision, like if he made one wrong step, he would fall through the ground and wake up to find this was all a dream. 

He made his way to the nose of the car. There, he stopped for a second, helmet angled to the sky, arms held loosely by his sides, as the ear-splitting cheers from the grandstands washed over him.

The crowd quieted for a moment, waiting with him to move, their noises rising and falling like the tides, commanded by the moon, radiant and silver. Except this time, the moon shone golden. 

In one smooth, explosive moment, he pumped both of his fists towards himself, form collapsing in on itself and head bowing as he bent over from the weight of the scream tearing out of his throat. 

The crowd screamed alongside him, worshipping their champion with all that they could. Lando could hear the clicking of the cameras all around him, intent on capturing the new champion’s exhilaration, preserving it in photography for future generations to adore. It would be an image that kids around the world hung in their bedrooms, Lando thought as he wiped a happy tear off of his face. 

As soon as Oscar jumped down from the car, people were on him. Tom was the first one there, joyfully wrapping his arms around Oscar and slapping him forcefully on the back. Lando watched from the sidelines, grinning widely as happiness exuded from every inch of Oscar’s body. 

Andrea was next, followed by Zak, then a papaya flood of engineers and other personnel streamed onto the track to surround their newest champion. Oscar was buffeted around by the waves of people coming to congratulate him, too overwhelmed to do anything other than receive their affection with open arms and wet eyes. 

Lando saw Nicole Piastri in the mix there, too, and she gave Lando a small wave as tears streamed down her face. Lando smiled back and she returned her attention to her son, wrestling her way through the crowd to fling her arms around him. 

He slumped into her embrace, squeezing back, his helmeted head hanging over her shoulder. Despite the inches he had on her, Oscar still leaned his weight into her, the warmth of a mother’s embrace softening him like butter. 

Once Oscar was able to disentangle his mother’s arms from around him, the McLaren engineers hoisted him onto their shoulders, and Oscar raised a triumphant fist into the air, garnering another massive roar from the crowd. 

Lando was called off for his own interview, but managed to keep half an eye on Oscar the entire time, answering questions with practiced and disinterested ease. 

Lando fought a smile as the engineers paraded Oscar around the track for a minute, each section of the grandstands he was closest to shouting even louder than before the moment his entourage approached. But he couldn’t help himself from grinning as he saw Oscar’s hand slip into his visor to frantically wipe the tears from his eyes. 

“Would you say that you’re proud of your teammate?” the reporter shouted into their microphone, barely audible over the din from the watching audience.

“Of course I am,” Lando scoffed. “Being able to watch him go from a rookie, all the way to fighting for a championship has been incredible. We’ve pushed each other to race harder, to race faster, and I’d say that both of us have become better drivers because of it. He’s a brilliant driver who absolutely deserves the championship.” 

The reporter let him go after that, presumably not getting the headliner they wanted about high tensions between the two McLaren drivers. Not that it mattered to Lando, as he moved to talk with Max and Charles, already yapping away in the corner.

Max’s eyes lit up as he saw Lando, clapping a hand on his back. Lando inserted himself between them, angling himself so he still had a view of the track and of Oscar. Charles offered a friendly handshake as well. 

He looked disappointed, understandingly so, especially since the championship had come down to the last few races. Charles had needed a miracle today to win his second championship after a red flag in quali left him unable to place higher than P6, but even though he managed to fight his way up to P3, the Monégasque knew that it wouldn’t be enough. 

Lando quickly offered his apologies, which Charles accepted with a tight smile, but he was kind enough to still be proud of Oscar. 

“Glad the championship is staying in the family,” he joked. His tone was free of any bitterness towards Oscar and instead fully happy to celebrate what the young man had achieved. 

They all watched eagerly as Oscar was finally released from the shoulders of the engineers to stumble towards an interview. 

Lando made a halting half-step forward at seeing Oscar falter, something Max and Charles both laughed at. 

“We race at more than 300 kilometers an hour every week, yet you are afraid of him tripping,” Max chortled. 

Lando shoved him lightly, cheeks flushing with warmth. “Fuck off,” he murmured with an embarrassed smile. “It’s not my fault he’s got the balance of a baby deer.” 

The other two drivers dissolved into giggles, but were quickly interrupted as a team member ushered Lando and Charles to the cooldown room. 

Oscar staggered into the cooldown room a few minutes after them, still wearing his helmet. 

He slumped into the middle chair, chest still rapidly rising and falling. He turned his helmet towards Lando. Lando reached out a hand across the way and Oscar tiredly clapped it. 

“Congratulations, P,” Lando said. “This was a long time coming.” 

Oscar’s eyes creased at the praise, the flushed part of his cheeks becoming more visible as he smiled. 

“Thanks mate,” he said back, earnest and honest. “Couldn’t’ve done it without you.”

“Any time.” 

With that, Charles butted in for a chance to talk to his adopted son, proudly congratulating the Aussie. All of their attention was briefly caught by a replay of the contact between Yuki and Kimi that had forced the young Italian to retire, before they were called up to the podium.

Lando raised an excited eyebrow at Oscar as they threaded through the hallways to the stage. 

“You doing it?” he asked under his breath, once they were away from the cooldown room’s microphones and cameras. 

“Yeah,” Oscar murmured back, the visible portions of his eyes scrunched with so much happiness they were almost shut. Despite how little of his brown irises were visible, Lando could still see them sparkling with a mix of jubilation and nerves. 

“Alright,” Lando smiled. “Let’s show the world that pretty face of yours.” 

He squeezed Oscar’s shoulder and Oscar brought up his own hand to squeeze Lando’s hand back in silent thanks. 

Charles was first out, followed by Lando. He walked out into the blinding lights to the adoring shouts of the crowd, waving eagerly as the fans screamed their approval. He took his rightful place on the second place stand, the British flag digitally flapping behind him. 

But if he thought the welcome he received was loud, it was nothing when Oscar was announced onto stage. Lando thought his eardrums were going to burst from the cacophony that erupted as soon as the Aussie stepped foot onto the podium, blue, red, and yellow helmet still firmly on his head. He waved as the fans shrieked and whistled, though they were almost drowned out by the shouts from the papaya army in front of the podium stage. 

They received their trophies with pride, hoisted them over their heads. 

The seconds ticked on, each passing note raising the tension in the grandstands. Everyone knew what was coming. They saw it with MV33, seven years ago in 2021. Now it was time for OP81. 

The Australian anthem played, followed by “God Save the King” for McLaren. The suspense only grew heavier, filling the air until it was thick enough to cut through with a knife. A reverent hush was falling over the crowd, cheers quieting to a soft, insistent murmur. 

Lando was getting antsy, glancing over towards Oscar over and over. His teammate had his head bowed, arms held behind him as the anthem drew to a close, undoubtedly steeling himself for what came next. 

As the finishing notes rang out across the track, it felt like the entire grandstands held their breath as Oscar’s hands found their way up to his helmet. With a gentle tug, he raised it off of his head and gently placed it at his feet next to his trophy.  

Only the balaclava remained to separate him from the world. 

With slow, steady hands, Oscar gripped the bottom of the black fabric. He took one final, deep breath before ripping the mask off of his head. 

And for the first time ever, the world saw the face of Oscar Jack Piastri. 

The tension was released, snapping like a bungee cord as raucous celebrations exploded around them. Oscar shyly waved to the audience, a broad smile on his face. He dropped the balaclava to the ground and smoothed back his helmet hair, only succeeding in making it look adorably tousled. 

Every camera in the stadium flashed and the deafening roar of the crowd threatened to blow Oscar away with the force behind it. 

Charles and Lando clapped loudly next to him, sharing equally proud expressions on their faces as the world drank Oscar in. Lando let his gaze drift from Oscar to look at the way Charles couldn’t take his eyes off of Oscar. He abruptly remembered that this was the first time any of the other drivers had seen Oscar’s face, that Lando was the sole driver on the grid who had been given the privilege of seeing Oscar before this moment. He let that private knowledge burn away the jealousy that the rest of the world now knew what his Oscar looked like. 

Lando waited for Oscar to reach down for his bottle of champagne before snagging his own and popping it in his signature move straight up into the sky. It rained down on them as he drenched Oscar with the rest of it, the Aussie half-blinded by the dual sprays from him and Charles, but he beamed the whole time as he frantically tried to fight back with his own bottle. 

Confetti rained down upon them, clinging to their drenched skin and race suits and coloring the entire stage in a dazzling array of Australia’s signature green and gold. 

When Lando and Charles’ champagne finally ran out, Oscar got a chance to wipe his face, laughing loudly. It was an ultimately futile effort, Lando knew as he grinned, due to how sticky the champagne was. It was always a bitch to wash out later, but it would be much easier with someone else to help. 

As Lando took a few steps away from Oscar to let the photographers get more solo pictures of the new champion, he watched with no small amount of happiness as Oscar, for the first time in his racing career, finally uninhibited by the mask, took a long, well-deserved swig from his bottle. The crowd went even crazier. Lando wasn’t much better, his eyes tracing the thick curve of Oscar’s neck. 

That’s mine, he thought gleefully. God, Lando wanted to kiss him. 

As Oscar dropped the bottle and wiped his mouth, his smile was blinding. Every molecule in his body displayed his ecstasy and euphoria, the pride and pleasure. Lando looked at his Oscar, beaming and gorgeous, sparkling with champagne and glowing with joy, and Oscar looked back, overflowing with delight. His smile changed, becoming something softer, something special and reserved for Lando; it made his heart skip a beat.

This moment had been years in the making, Lando mused with a fond smile as he watched Oscar wave to the adoring crowd one final time. 

He knew, deep in his bones, with the same unerring certainty he had five years ago after first meeting OP81, that Oscar was always destined to be a world champion. 

What Lando never could have predicted, though, was that Oscar was destined for him, too. 

o-o-o

Lando Norris’ Checklist

1. Propose to my Oscar

Chapter Text

2029

The second Oscar got back from his morning run, he groaned and flopped onto the couch, immediately burying his face into Lando’s neck. The Brit let out a small noise of surprise, but kept his eyes focused on his computer. 

“Jesus, Osc, why is your nose so cold?” Lando grumbled, but despite his complaints, he did nothing to move Oscar, just raised a steaming mug of coffee to his lips. 

“Mm,” Oscar sighed, “it’s cold outside.” 

“Yeah, no shit. Why do you think I’m wearing four layers?” Lando scoffed. 

The Aussie gave no response and just buried his face further. Lando was very warm right now. Perks of those four layers, Oscar supposed. Made him very comfortable to use as a pillow. 

A second later, though, Lando gave a small shove to Oscar’s shoulder, a movement met with a disgruntled noise. 

“Koala, you stink. Go shower, stop getting me smelly, then you can come back.” 

“But you’re warm now,” the Aussie murmured into his neck. “Besides, you like it when I’m sweaty.” 

“Nope, that’s when it’s from a different type of cardio; now go,” Lando said, punctuating his words with another shove. 

Oscar let out a sad noise. “Fine,” he huffed and rose. As he walked towards their bathroom, he shot a look over his shoulder. 

“You know,” Oscar said casually, “there’s a whole lot of room in the shower right now. And I reckon I could use some company to warm up.”

A moment of silence. The slam of a laptop and the patter of feet.

“You’re incorrigible,” were Lando’s muttered words as he grabbed Oscar’s hand and let the Aussie tug him towards the bathroom, laughing the whole way. 

o-o-o

After a rather unproductive shower, they ended up on the couch again, both warm and enjoying their morning. Lando was fixing eggs and toast, one of the only things Oscar trusted him to make, and Oscar sat on the couch, staring at the newest email in his inbox. 

Now that they were on summer break, they couldn’t do much in terms of the car. However, that didn’t mean that driver negotiations were off the table. No, the break meant that all their focus could be put on finding contracts. And, unfortunately, the end of Oscar’s current contract with McLaren was coming up. 

He knew that Zak was more than eager to have Oscar re-sign his contract with them. But, this email from Mark offered something else. Something new. 

There were two messages in the thread. One from Christian Horner. One from Toto Wolff. 

Both held the promise of a long-term contract, of an incredible team that would back him to the end of the line, of all the glitz and glamour that came with being a driver for a team as historically dominant as theirs. 

As much as McLaren was his home, he always knew that there would come a time when he’d have to branch away from his papaya roots. 

Lando rounded the couch with two plates in his hands. He set one down on a low coffee table in front of Oscar, and kept the other in his lap as he sat down. He took a big bite, before leaning to the left to peek over Oscar’s shoulder. 

“What are you looking at?” he asked, his words muffled around a mouthful of bread. 

Oscar showed Lando his phone without a second thought, realizing a second too late that perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. Oops. Hopefully that wasn’t illegal. 

But it was too late now, Oscar supposed, watching Lando’s eyes widen as he read the subject line of both emails. Lando swallowed the bite of toast hard, coughing as he did.  

“Osc, are you kidding me?” Lando gasped once his mouth was clear, surprise coloring his words. “That’s incredible!” 

“You’re not mad?” Oscar asked, glancing back at him. 

Lando frowned at him, eyebrows creasing. “Why would I be mad?” 

“I don’t know,” Oscar shrugged. “Maybe because I’d be leaving you?” 

“Osc, babe, I always knew you weren’t going to stay at McLaren,” Lando sighed. “They’ve always been my home, but I always imagined it as more of a… stepping stone for you. That is to say, I’ve always imagined you thriving somewhere like Mercedes or Red Bull.” 

“You hate having me as a teammate that much?” Oscar asked with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. 

“No, no,” Lando spluttered, quick to correct his words. “I meant it more as, like, you’re prime Lewis or prime Max material, you know?” 

Oscar made a noncommittal noise, his eyes drifting back to the email thread. He couldn’t deny that the offer was tempting. The pay raise alone might make it worth it. But more importantly, yearned for a team that would really let him bare his teeth without remorse. 

His first win in Hungary 2024 had given him an itch for more, tugging him along, race after race, igniting a blaze within. The second win, the true win in Azerbaijan that same year just added fuel to the fire. It grew and grew alongside his ranking in the Driver’s Championship, and after 2026, it roared in his chest with the force of a thousand suns. 

The burn was addicting, and he wanted more. 

He didn’t know if McLaren could give that to him. 

Despite their domination in recent years, 2029 was not starting off well for them. The car was a mess, unbalanced and hard to steer. It reminded Oscar of 2023, of their early season struggles. However, this year, no salvation came in the form of upgrades, which struggled to deliver results race after race. 

They’d continuously brought home painful results: mostly top 10s, a smattering of top 5s, but only 3 podiums between the two of them. It was a far cry from 2028, and just like how the car felt like it was reverting, so too was McLaren. 

Oscar couldn’t help but feel pushed to the side again, delegated to an unofficial second driver role. Just like 2024, it was all about Lando’s results, about Lando being pushed further in the standings. Though they never said that, and no matter how much Andrea protested the treatment, Oscar knew in his heart what was occurring. 

He didn’t resent Lando for what was happening, as they’d worked through those problems years ago, but he couldn’t help but feel old anger reignite towards the team. 

Maybe it was time for a change. 

Lando took another bite of toast, all of his attention now on the TikToks on his phone. He laughed, showing the video on his phone to Oscar. Oscar gave the appropriate amount of attention to the video, letting out one quiet huff of amusement before returning his attention to his phone. 

Without thinking about it longer, he hit “reply” and drafted a response to Mark.

2031

Life at Red Bull was much different than what Oscar ever expected. 

First, he was turning thirty this year. It was a strange feeling, he thought as he lay in his driver’s room, to enter the fourth decade of one’s life. Logically, he knew that he was by no means old, yet when he thought about how far he’d come, how much he’d done, and how young the rookies on the grid were, logic didn’t quite comfort him. After all, they had been born in 2013 for Christ’s sake. 

Second, Red Bull liked it when he fought hard on track. There were no more warnings to keep the car safe, to not make aggressive moves. Instead, all of his engineers encouraged him, telling him to keep up the good work and push the car to the limit. If he passed those limits, sent the car into the wall, they told him that they would find upgrades to extend the limits. 

It was exhilarating and freeing, and he had no doubt that this was a result of a team defined by history-defining drivers like Vettel and Verstappen. Red Bull was a team limited only by their drivers, and Oscar refused to let them regret their decision. 

Third, he was getting the strange feeling that Lando was going to propose soon. 

The feeling first arose two months ago. 

Following a workout in the morning and a deliciously boring lunch that Arthur had prepared for him. Oscar was lazily scrolling on his phone in their bedroom when Lando burst in like the Kool-Aid man. 

“We’ve got dinner reservations at Le Grille in an hour,” he chirped as he flopped down next to Oscar and immediately burrowed under his arm. “Make sure you wear something nice.” 

“Why do you never tell me about these things in advance,” Oscar groaned, flopping his non-Lando-filled arm over his face. “Now I have to get up when I just got comfy.” 

Lando snorted. “‘Just got comfy,’ my ass. You’ve been here for an hour already.” 

“And what if I wanted to be here for two hours?” 

“Then I’d say too bad.” 

“I hate you.” 

“We can get ice cream afterwards from that place you like.” 

Oscar peeked out at a grinning Lando from underneath his arm. 

“Fine, but only because I love you.” 

Lando wiggled into the crook of Oscar’s arm and sighed. “You love me no matter what.” 

“Always.” 

An hour later, when they finally arrived at the restaurant—Lando in a navy polo and Oscar in a light blue button down—Oscar had his characteristic soft smile back on his face. 

They were guided to their table on the terrace by a bored waiter who had no doubt gotten used to seeing celebrities of all kinds at this restaurant. Lando darted in front of Oscar to pull out the sturdy wooden chair as the waiter stepped away, smirking as Oscar rolled his eyes at the gesture. 

Their table was perfectly situated near the edge of the balcony, framed between two stone pillars that were thick with crawling, flowering vines. Their gentle blossoms filled the air with a delicate perfume and the setting sun cast a golden glow over the whole scene. 

They laughed and conversed as the waiter brought over their drinks, their appetizers, their food. Conversation flowed as easily as when they first began dating and both of them greedily inhaled the fare like it was their last meal on earth. There was something giddy in the air that day, whether it was from the flowers or the wine, or the juvenile excitement from a cheat meal, neither could say. 

It felt like the perfect moment. They were alone in their little corner of the restaurant, no screaming fans or high tension on track. Just the two of them, alone together. 

After a lull in the conversation, Oscar turned to watch the sunset, admiring how the sun wavered where it met the sea. 

“Lando, look at the—” 

His words cut off as he turned to see an empty space where Lando was sitting a few seconds ago. His throat closed up and a surge of nerves erupted in his stomach. 

Holding his breath, he turned his head further, to see—

Lando holding his phone and aiming it at Oscar’s face. He wore a soft smile as he stared at Oscar through the lens.

“I just got the best sunset photos of you, Osc,” Lando announced triumphantly. “I’d better see these on the photo dump, and with credit.” 

Oscar fought to keep his disappointment from showing. It was fine. It wasn’t like he actually expected Lando to propose right now, did he? They were in the middle of a competitive season, fighting on track for the championships; there was no time for plans of marriage or creating a future together or getting married in a beautiful ceremony or adopting a dog—

He stopped that train of thought before his facade broke from the weight of his desires. 

“Sure thing, Lan,” Oscar forced himself to laugh. “But people are definitely going to know we’re together.” 

Lando lowered his phone, placing it back on the table as he rolled his eyes. 

“It’s been eight years, Osc, I’m pretty sure it’s an open secret at this point.” 

Oscar smiled back at him, tilting his head as he watched Lando take his seat. “Yeah, eight pretty incredible years, huh?” 

Lando flushed, rolling his eyes again. “You’re such a muppet, you know that?” 

“Your muppet,” Oscar corrected. 

“My muppet,” Lando agreed. 

It was fine, Oscar told himself as he let Lando convince him into ordering a cheesecake for dessert. They had been going strong for eight years now. What was a little more waiting? 

o-o-o

Three weeks later, Lando roused him from a very comfortable nap with a shake to the shoulder. 

“Wanna go for a hike?” Lando asked like he wasn’t already dressed in athletic wear, shoes sloppily laced as he hopped foot to foot. 

Oscar blinked sleepily at him, still grasping for all of his awareness. 

“You’re joking, right?” he groused, stretching his arms above his head as he rolled to face Lando. “You couldn’t have asked that before I showered?” 

Lando gave him a cartoonish frown. “Well, yeah, I could’ve, but I didn’t want to hike then. I want to hike now.” 

Oscar flopped back onto his pillow with a groan. 

“Give me ten minutes,” he sighed, hiding a small smile at the whoop of laughter Lando let out. 

An hour later, when they made it up the mountains of Monaco, Lando darted away through an area of the woods Oscar had never been to before.

“I know a secret area, c’mon,” he shouted back over his shoulder, lithe form already disappearing into the forest’s shadows. 

Oscar wiped his brow with a sigh before he followed. There was always a new secret to discover in Monaco, he supposed, despite the country’s small size. Oscar ducked under a branch, doing his best not to twist an ankle as he picked his way over the writhing roots underfoot. Though there was a general trail, it was almost indiscernible to the unaware eye. 

Lando was waiting for Oscar beside a tree, almost vibrating with nervous energy as he smiled at the Aussie. 

“Almost there, just a bit further,” he said cheerfully, waiting until Oscar was next to him to start walking again. “You’re going to love it.” 

With a furtive glance over his shoulder, Oscar ensured that they were alone and, with a sly brush of their fingers, grabbed Lando’s hand. 

Lando looked back at him, his eyes glowing with something unnamable as he slowed his pace to walk side-by-side with Oscar on the narrow path. 

Eventually, Oscar saw the trees begin to thin and the sunlight grew stronger. As they walked into the light, the trees dropped away to reveal a beautiful clearing that overlooked the entire principality. He felt his breath catch. Despite living here for almost a decade now, he still couldn’t get over the sight of the city laid out in front of him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lando watching him, drinking in the expression on Oscar’s face. 

“I told you you’d like it,” Lando murmured, squeezing Oscar’s once hand before letting go to wrap his arm around Oscar’s waist. 

“Yeah, right again,” Oscar said with a smile before he turned his head to press a kiss to Lando’s forehead. “It’s beautiful.” 

Oscar felt those familiar butterflies again as they breathed in the tranquility around them, enjoying their private sanctuary only a few kilometres from their normally-frantic lives. He tried to tamper down the feeling. There was no use getting his hopes up again, after all, if they were just going to come crashing down again. 

But, he mused, it really did seem like a beautiful moment. Nobody around them, again, and a beautiful background behind them for when they both inevitably called their loved ones to share the good news. The athletic wear would be a nice touch as well. A nice tribute to their careers, he supposed. 

All of his thoughts went out the window, though, as Lando detached from his body and stepped behind Oscar. The Aussie fought to keep his breath steady as he continued to gaze at the skyline for a heartbeat, then another, until he heard Lando’s soft voice say, “Osc?” 

With bated breath, Oscar turned around, seeing Lando standing very still with very wide eyes as he looked down at his outstretched arm. 

“There’s a massive spider on me,” he whispered, the quiet panic straining his voice. His eyes were locked onto a tiny arachnid, maybe the size of a dime, sitting calmly on his arm. 

Oscar burst out laughing, the disappointment immediately shifting into genuine amusement. He doubled over as Lando glared at him, the sting of betrayal written all over his face. 

“I know you’ve said that they are more scared of me than I am of them,” Lando whisper-yelled, “but right now, I don’t believe you. I am trying very hard to stay calm right now and here you are laughing at me.” 

The spider took a few more steps up Lando’s arm and the Brit’s face contorted in horror. 

“Osc, I swear to god, if you don’t get this thing off me right now, I am going to run off this cliff and everyone will accuse you of murdering the competition and you’ll never win another championship because you’ll be in jail,” Lando warned. 

“Calm down, Lan,” Oscar snorted, still trying to contain his laughter as he grabbed a leaf off the ground. “You’re doing great right now, babe, I’m very proud.” 

“You fucking should be,” Lando said with gritted teeth. Oscar hadn’t seen him blink once yet. 

With gentle hands, Oscar nudged the spider onto the leaf and deposited it away from them at the base of a tree. He watched as it scuttled away into the leaf litter, hopefully off to catch a few more mosquitos. 

“See?” Oscar said as he brushed the dirt off his hands. “Nothing to be afraid of.” 

Lando shuddered as he frantically wiped his arms in a futile attempt to remove the lingering sensation of legs. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Outback.” 

“Never call me that again.”

“I don’t know, I think the press needs a new nickname for you…” 

“You wouldn’t dare!” 

“Laugh at me the next time there’s a spider in our house and you’ll find out.” 

o-o-o

Despite the joy that Oscar had been getting from these dates, he couldn’t help but begin to lose more and more hope. After all, each of those had seemed like the perfect occasion. How much better could the circumstances be? 

Perhaps he had read Lando’s intentions wrong? 

He didn’t doubt that the man would propose; he’d heard all about Lando’s mental checklist for years now. The timing, however, was the more obscure part of this whole ordeal. 

But as the weeks came and went, and they continued to race, Oscar let the anticipation fade. It would happen when it happened, he supposed. So, he continued racing. He continued winning. And most importantly, he continued loving Lando and every moment they had together. 

One night, as they were cuddling on the couch, watching the newest episode of The Great British Bake Off as tradition dictated, he glanced down at Lando’s sleeping face, before tracing a finger gently over the Brit’s cheek. 

Eight years, Oscar thought with a smile, and I’m still as in love with him as the day we met. 

o-o-o

Three weeks later, the day had started normally, with Oscar going through his daily motions of waking, eating, and analyzing data. That afternoon, he’d gone for a run, strapping his heart rate monitor on as usual and calling out to Lando that he’d be back soon. 

When he opened the door after his run, wiping some lingering drops of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, a colorful projectile of blue and tan launched towards his face. Oscar flinched, using his hand to shield his face and snatch the fabric out of the air.

“What the fuck, Lan?” he laughed. He glanced down at his hands, confused to see a pale blue button down and khakis, then back up to see Lando grinning at him as he leaned against the doorway to their bedroom. A towel was slung low around his hips, a few beads of water rolling down his chest, and it took Oscar a concerning amount of effort to stay focused on his words.

“Take a shower and make yourself look pretty,” Lando instructed, an impish grin on his face. “We’re going somewhere nice tonight.” 

Oscar ripped his eyes away from Lando’s torso, his gaze darting to Lando’s eyes as his heart leaped into his throat. He knew that Mark would inevitably be squinting at the data from his heart monitor, questioning what could’ve made it spike so intensely, but that would be a conversation for another day. 

The more important question bouncing around Oscar’s head right now was whether or not this would be the day. 

Without another word, Oscar closed the front door behind him and slipped off his shoes. Lando stayed put in the doorway, forcing Oscar to squeeze past him. As he did, the Brit whistled lightly and slapped his ass. 

“And what a sight that is,” he murmured. 

Oscar glared back at him from over his shoulder. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” 

“Guess we’ll just have to continue later tonight, then,” Lando said, smiling as he raised his hands in surrender. 

Without another word, Oscar rushed through his shower. After he toweled off and pulled on the clothes, he wiped the mist off the mirror, miniscule droplets condensing together into streaks that mutated his reflection. 

One palm laid flat against the glass, the other gripping the edge of the sink. 

Oscar stared at himself. It was by no means a remarkable reflection. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except for the distinctly strange feeling lingering in his stomach. It reminded him of the exhilaration that filled his chest the first time he’d stepped foot in the MCL60, all those years ago. Butterflies and knots, wrapped together in one tangled mess. 

As he continued gazing at his reflection, he suddenly realized the name of the feeling: anticipation. 

He raked his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame the mess. It proved fruitless as his trademark swoop flopped back into place, albeit with a bit less volume from the water still weighing it down. 

With one final sigh and glance into the mirror, he opened the door, steam curling around his legs as Lando turned to face him. As always, Lando was smiling as he gave Oscar an appreciative up and down. The Brit had thankfully replaced the towel with an outfit similar to Oscar’s. His 

“Right, let’s get going,” Lando said with a wink. “Can’t be late.” 

“What for?”

“Well I can’t tell you that, it’d spoil the surprise.” 

o-o-o 

What followed was a slightly nauseating half hour of winding roads. Lando skillfully wove along the backgrounds of the English countryside with practiced ease, all the while teasing Oscar for how strongly he was gripping the door. Deep down, Oscar trusted Lando to get them to wherever they were going safely, but there was a big difference between being the passenger versus being the driver in a situation like this. 

Needless to say, Oscar usually preferred being the driver. But, for Lando, he’d be a passenger any day. 

When they finally silenced the purring McLaren’s engine, Oscar stepped out to view what was probably one of the nicest beaches England had to offer. Pristine expanses of white sand stretched out before them, unmarred by stones or seaweed. Oscar inhaled deeply as he listened to the waves crashing gently onto the sand, sea breeze tousling his hair. 

Lando stepped up next to him.

“Beautiful, innit? Weather’s perfect too,” Lando remarked, nestling his chin onto Oscar’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Oscar breathed, watching the setting sun paint the sky gold. “Absolutely gorgeous.” 

And it truly was. Not a cloud filled the sky and the only cawing seagulls disrupted the gently darkening blue expanse above them. 

They stood there for a moment more, breathing in the saltiness of the wind, before Lando stepped back with a squeeze to Oscar’s waist. 

“Come on, then. Help me carry all this, else we’ll miss the sunset.” 

Oscar flicked his eyes away from the horizon to Lando, seeing the Brit standing next to the opened front trunk. Inside was a wicker basket and a red checkered blanket folded neatly underneath. 

“You’re such a sap,” Oscar laughed. 

Lando winked at him. “Only for you.” 

With that, Lando grabbed the basket, leaving the blanket for Oscar to carry, and began picking his way down wooden stairs to the beach. Oscar gathered the blanket in his arms, closing the front trunk (“frunk” was a stupid name, in his opinion, and he refused to call it that) and followed. Before long, they had the blanket laid down and a whole spread of foods set before them. 

Fruits, cheese, cured meats and crackers were laid out with meticulous detail by Lando, artfully arranged in a Pinterest-worthy display. Combined with the increasingly colorful skyline, he couldn’t deny how beautiful the entire moment was. 

“Aw, Lan, I can’t believe you organized all of this for me,” the Aussie said, staring at the food with no small amount of adoration in his eyes. Oscar raised an eyebrow and finished, “And completely by yourself.” 

Lando gave him a sheepish grin. “What can I say? Charles has a great eye for this kind of stuff.”

Oscar scoffed lightly at that, but it held no heat. He scooted towards Lando, wrapping his arms around the Brit as the other man leaned back into his embrace. 

“Regardless of who picked the salami,” Oscar murmured into Lando’s hair, “thank you for all of this. It, and you, are absolutely beautiful.” 

“Anything for you,” Lando breathed back. 

As the sun continued its descent, their food disappeared with a similar speed as they shared bites of food in between their words. Finally, as the sky was the most vivid it had been, Lando suddenly pushed himself up and off of Oscar to stand. 

“It’s perfect for photos right now,” Lando grinned cheekily. “I can get the best silhouette soft-launch photo you’ve ever seen right now.” 

“Is it really a soft launch if it’s an open secret?” Oscar grumbled but stood as well. 

“It’s a soft launch if I say it’s a soft launch,” Lando shrugged, already pulling his camera out of the depths of the picnic basket. Rolling his eyes with a smile, he pulled off his shoes and socks and rolled his pants before trudging towards the water. 

Though he never quite had the eye for photography that Lando did, he always indulged the other man’s whims. Besides, he mused, Lando’s photography account had been pretty dry lately. Maybe it was time to drop a picture that would send the fans into a rabid craze, he thought with a wry smile. 

When his feet dipped into the water, he immediately felt goosebumps run up his spine. The water was frigid but gentle, swirling around his feet in small eddies. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, feeling the fading warmth from the sun across his face. 

From behind him, he heard the familiar snap! of Lando’s shutter going off behind him. Oscar smiled, but kept his eyes closed as the familiar rush of the waves over the sand accompanied his every breath. 

He heard the small splash of steps taken as Lando repositioned himself slightly to Oscar’s left, the water documenting his every move. 

The next thing that Oscar heard though, was the clearing of a throat. Oscar fluttered his eyes open, the glare of the sun briefly blinding him. He blinked to clear his eyes before turning to Lando, confusion already furrowing his brow. 

Lando, on one knee in the wet sand. 

Lando, with a ring box proudly displayed and opened. 

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat, the question dying on his tongue. 

Before even seeing the ring, his mind flashed back to a few months ago. It was a one-off event, something supposed to be a memory and nothing more. Yet here it was, nestled on a velvet cushion. 

o-o-o

It was a beautiful day in Monaco and Oscar was strolling downtown with Logan when the American let out a gasp. 

Oscar startled, glancing around for the perceived danger, but Logan simply pointed at a jewelry store, a huge smile on his face. 

"We have to go there," Logan turned and looked at Oscar with pleading eyes. "Alex has been hinting for months that he wants to propose and I don't have the slightest idea what I want." 

Oscar snorted. "Mate, are you kidding? Of course we're going then. Can't believe you didn't tell me sooner." 

"Been busy," Logan said bashfully as he held open the door for Oscar. 

"Mm, Le Man's been keeping you too busy to tell your best friend that you're getting engaged soon?" Oscar ribbed as he slipped inside the pristine building. "Or is it someone who's been making it slip your mind?" 

Logan shoved his shoulder lightly as he followed Oscar in. "Oh, fuck off," he laughed. 

Both of them went quiet as the store attendant greeted them, the reality of the situation hitting the two men as they stared at the vast array of sparkling rings in front of them. 

"Is there anything I can help you with?" the young woman asked cheerfully. 

"No, uh... sorry, yeah, actually. I'm getting engaged soon, but I'm not really sure what kind of ring I want..." Logan trailed off, looking almost ashamed.

The attendant gave him a reassuring smile. "You'd be surprised by the number of people who come in with that same concern. Don't worry, I'm sure we can find something you'll love." 

She then turned her attention to Oscar. "And what about you, sir?" 

"Oh, I'm just here for moral support," Oscar said. 

"Why don't you take a look too?" she asked. 

Oscar shook his head. "I think I'm fine just looking, thank you though." 

"Of course," she turned her attention back to Logan. "Now, let's see if we can help..." 

As Logan conversed with the attendant, Oscar let his gaze wander to the displays in front of him. Silver, gold, and diamond all sparkled in front of him, but he found himself uninterested by the glitz and glamour. 

But as he moved to the next case, he felt his gaze catch on a ring, unobtrusive but still beautiful in its own right. A silver band with a mother-of-pearl inlay running through the center. At first glance, it looked plain, but the closer you looked, the more you saw each individual fragment of shell glimmer in the light in a thousand shades of iridescence. He stared longingly at it, then down at his own unadorned finger. 

What he didn't see, however, was Logan taking close stock of his longing gaze. 

o-o-o

He gasped, both hands flying up to cover his gaping mouth. 

“Oscar,” Lando said, warm and deliberate, “will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?” 

A broad smile spread across Oscar’s face, his hands slowly dropping. The ring winked in fading light, beckoning forward the answer that had been written on his soul from the day they met. 

“Yes, you idiot, yes! ” 

Lando surged forward to meet Oscar, his free hand cupping Oscar’s face as he pulled him into an ecstatic kiss. Oscar reciprocated, laughing between kisses as he wrapped his arms around Lando’s neck. The next time they broke apart for air, Oscar rested his forehead against the other man’s, closing his eyes as they breathed in each other, waves still churning around their ankles. 

“You still haven’t put the ring on,” Oscar giggled softly. 

“Oh, fuck—” Lando tore himself away, pulling the box away from where he’d tucked it against his chest. It had closed in the chaos and Lando fumbled with the lid for a moment, Oscar laughing all the while. 

With momentous effort, the box was reopened and the beautiful ring slid onto his finger. 

They embraced once more, both unable to stop smiling. 

Finally, Oscar leaned back, Lando’s hands dropping from Oscar’s shoulders to hold his waist. 

“You’re such a fucking arse,” Oscar accused. “I thought you were going to propose so many times before this” 

Lando cackled before burying his face into Oscar’s chest. “That was the point, Osc, it was all part of my master plan,” the words muffled. 

“You’re lucky that I love you,” Oscar grumbled. 

He expected a witty quip back. Instead, Lando raised his head to stare into Oscar’s eyes, pure adoration shining out of them. “Don’t I know it.”