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Silverstone, 2024
Lando stares at the bracelets on his arm.
He’s been staring for roughly ten minutes now, unable to get any serious packing done. The bracelets were made well enough, with little pearl beads and cute heart ones on either side of his and Oscar’s names. He’d seen tons of bracelets like these before, owns about a hundred of them, almost all bearing a variation of his name, but Lando just couldn’t stop staring at these ones in particular.
A fan called him over right after the fan stage earlier, greeting him happily, and bashfully offering up the bracelets they’d made for the two McLaren drivers. Since Oscar was off to the other side, Lando had taken it upon himself to let the fan know that he’d hand Oscar’s bracelet to him later.
“These are lovely,” Lando had praised. “Osc and I can match, yeah?”
“That’s the idea,” the fan said with a little giggle.
Lando beamed at them and signed a few other things before being ushered back to the paddock. He slipped both the bracelets onto his wrist, completely forgetting about them until he caught a glimpse of his hand while packing.
And now he sits in his driver’s room, turning the beads over, running his fingertips over Oscar’s name.
It’s a bit silly, now that he realizes what he’s doing. But Lando can’t help the giddy feeling that arises in his chest when he sees the letters of his teammate’s name splayed out against his skin like that. It’s probably weird when he thinks about it that way, but it’s no secret either, at least to Lando, that he might have felt a little more for his teammate than he originally thought.
Last year was all about getting to actually know the guy, and Lando figured out that he liked everything he uncovered about Oscar. Even his weird, awkward mannerisms. Like doubling over in laughter every time Lando said anything even remotely humorous. That was an instant pickup for Lando and everyone who has eyes. It was so obvious, the guy practically Zendaya laughed at everything he said. Or when Oscar looks at Lando for approval every time Oscar would crack a joke. That one took a bit of time but Lando noticed how Oscar would tell him his best jokes before letting them rip in public. Sort of like a test run. That endeared (and still endears) Lando to no end.
So, naturally, by the beginning of this year, Lando had a few questions about the consistent butterflies in his stomach when Oscar was around, which was, seeing as they’re teammates, nearly always.
“Hey mate, the van’s here to take us back to the hotel,” Oscar’s voice abruptly cuts through Lando’s thoughts. Lando looks up and sees Oscar poking his head through the door, backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Right, yeah, I’ll be out in a minute,” Lando reassures, shoving the remainder of his things into his own bag.
“It’s fine, I’ll wait,” Oscar says, leaning by the door.
Lando blinks, unable to speak for a few seconds. Oscar’s hair is fluffed up from being stuffed inside a cap, light brown strands curling into themselves. The small, polite smile on Oscar’s face isn’t helping either as Lando nearly drops his phone while trying to pocket it.
“Okay,” Lando hurriedly responds. He tries to do up his bag’s zip but the crude stuffing of his personal effects inside makes it difficult.
“Sorry,” Lando adds with a nervous chuckle, his fingers slipping and unable to grasp the damn zipper.
“You must be more tired than you’re letting on, mate,” Oscar guesses, laughing as he enters Lando’s room. “Here, let me.”
Oscar takes Lando’s bag from him and rearranges the things inside, patting the objects down to make more space. The younger tugs on the zipper and closes the bag in one fluid motion.
“There,” Oscar declares.
“Thanks, Osc,” Lando returns with a light punch to Oscar’s shoulder.
Oscar grins, glancing down at Lando’s arm. Lando follows his gaze and gives a start.
“Oh, yeah, a fan gave this to me,” Lando explains, slipping the ‘Oscar’ bracelet off. “I have my own so we can match.”
Oscar takes the bracelet from Lando, turning it over in his hand. His smile softens as he puts it on. Lando, as if to prove his point, raises his arm and lines it up with his teammate’s.
“Cute,” Lando comments, nudging Oscar playfully.
Oscar laughs and Lando can see the red that dusts his cheeks. Lando’s own blood seems to rush up into his head because he just saw fucking Oscar Piastri blush in real-time and he has no idea what to do about it.
So instead, he pats Oscar on the back, jittery and nervous.
“Come on now, Osco, the van might be honking its tits off waiting for us,” Lando says rather loudly, trying to break the weird, quiet tension in the room. Oscar flinches but follows Lando out without as much as a word.
“Honking its tits off?” Oscar asks.
Lando merely laughs in response
—
Oscar keeps the bracelet on throughout the flight back to Nice. It shouldn’t make Lando as happy as it does, but it does. He snaps a quick photo on his phone when Oscar isn't looking, their arms lined up just perfectly as they sit together on the plane. Lando makes a quick mental note that he should include that in a photo dump someday.
A few hours later, they arrive at the airport, say their goodbyes, and get on different shuttles. Lando idly toys with his phone just as they’re entering Monaco, the photo app popping up as he unlocks the screen.
Oscar is much, much paler than Lando, as Lando so keenly observes from the photo. He also has smoother arms. And smaller, daintier hands. Soft, too, Lando now remembers, through the friendly handshakes and brotherly dap-ups.
Lando recoils when he realizes where his thoughts are going.
“Jesus,” he mutters to himself.
Lando locks his phone and sighs, staring at the van’s gray ceiling above him.
-
Budapest, 2024
It was an indescribable feeling, one that’s hard to compare to any other feeling he’s had in his life, save maybe for his first win.
Lando is beaming beneath his helmet, not that anyone can see, but he knows everyone knows just how elated he is. He parks up at the board displaying the bold, blocky ‘1’, reserved for the pole sitter.
A little anticlimactic, sure, but a pole nonetheless, he tells himself.
The best consolation, perhaps, is that Oscar is there with him, securing themselves a front-row lockout. Lando’s heart starts to hammer against his chest as Oscar’s helmet comes into view, and it takes another second for Lando to realize that Oscar’s holding his hand, and as if on instinct, Lando claps him on the shoulder.
Oscar’s eyes are scrunched up in a big smile and it’s so infectious that Lando mirrors him as well.
“Great job, mate.” Lando barely hears Oscar through his upturned visor.
“You too. Big day for us, eh, Osc?” Lando responds and immediately comes the telltale shake of Oscar’s shoulders as he laughs.
They’re interrupted by an FIA official, ushering them for weighing and Lando knows he and Oscar can celebrate this properly later on.
For now, Lando watches Oscar’s back as the younger walks off, still sporting a grin that takes up half of his face.
—
“You’re still wearing it.”
Lando stares at Oscar’s wrist, glancing up briefly to see Oscar looking back at him questioningly.
“The bracelet,” Lando points out, and Oscar’s eyes widen in recognition.
Oscar raises his hand and inspects the lone beaded accessory on his wrist, shrugging.
“I didn’t take it off for a long time after Silverstone, so I figured why not just wear it,” Oscar reveals, reaching over to line their bracelets up again. Lando’s breath hitches slightly when he feels the weight of Oscar’s arm on his lap.
The van falls quiet as they drive through the streets of Budapest, the street lights barely illuminating the interior of the vehicle. Oscar still hasn’t budged, arm casually resting against Lando’s, who’s currently fighting the urge to hook his own arm around Oscar’s extended one.
“We can keep them on,” Lando suggests, looking directly at Oscar. It comes out a little softer than Lando intended and he wonders if Oscar picked up on the tender nature of the comment, the younger’s eyebrows shooting up slightly.
“Like an actual friendship bracelet,” Oscar declares more so than asks.
Lando nods. “Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Oscar smiles, the same small, polite upturn of his lips he always does. And Lando, with the way he is, smiles wider than he really should have.
—
It’s a little concerning how tight Lando’s chest feels at this moment.
He should be happy. It’s a dream come true for him, for Oscar, for the team. He and Oscar talked about this so many times before, what it would feel like, what they would do, how they’d celebrate. In a brash move on Lando’s part some months ago, he straight up blurted out that he’d kiss Oscar square on the mouth if they got a 1-2 within the year.
“I might just kiss you on the podium,” Lando teased, cackling as Oscar’s whole face and neck turned a deep crimson.
“Maybe don’t do that,” came Oscar’s wavering response, face buried in his hands.
The team erupted in laughter around them then, and it felt good to be talking about those things, to hope for something as significant as that.
And they’ve done it, but as people often ask in this sport: at what cost?
A tiny corner of Lando’s mind tells him it’s okay, it doesn’t matter what it costs, because Oscar is a race winner now, and Lando knows how much this means to his teammate. What’s one race when you’ve been in this sport chasing wins for the past five years?
Lando climbs out of his car, ignoring the flurry of voices calling out to him. He strides towards Oscar and reaches into the cockpit, grasping Oscar’s hand. Lando doesn’t even know what he says, and he’s sure Oscar didn’t catch it, anyway, with all the noise surrounding them.
“Thanks!” Oscar calls through his helmet, flashing Lando a thumbs up.
Lando lets go and walks off, sinking into autopilot mode. The next moment he remembers is looking up to see Oscar walking over to him while Lewis gives his interview. Lando flashes his teammate the biggest smile, wordless as he grips Oscar’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Oscar grins back and it’s as if they already know. He taps Oscar’s arm once, twice and both of them devolve into laughter, less humorous and more in disbelief, an undercurrent of confusion and frustration.
Congratulations. I’m sorry.
Thank you. I’m sorry, too.
—
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
Oscar stands in the doorway of Lando’s driver's room, back in his team kit, hands shoved inside the pockets of his shorts.
“Can we…talk?” Oscar begins, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to look straight into Lando’s eyes, which were downcast and obviously avoiding Oscar’s own.
Lando nods, forcing a smile as he steps aside to let Oscar in. Lando shuts the door and locks it for good measure, not wanting anything or anyone to interrupt what he knows will be a difficult conversation. He straightens up and looks at Oscar, who had perched himself on top of Lando’s massage table, legs swinging like a little kid.
Lando’s shoulders relax as he chuckles at the sight in front of him.
“Move over, will ya?” Lando chides, nudging Oscar over as he sits right next to him. Their shoulders press against each other’s, closer than what’s necessary, closer than what’s expected of two teammates in an awkward situation.
“First of all, I want you to know that nothing is your fault,” Lando begins, surprising both himself and Oscar.
Oscar gives him a look but nods, urging him to continue.
“I might say or do stuff that might seem, I don’t know, off or scummy or just plain bad,” Lando warns, fiddling with his fingers.
“It’s not because of you. It’s just, you know…yeah.”
Lando kicks himself in his head. This is a conversation that he wanted to have, determined to leave things on a positive note with Oscar, but here he is, at a loss for words.
In the corner of his eye, he sees Oscar nod again.
“I know,” Oscar says. “It’s not your fault, either.”
Lando’s eyes start to prickle and he can feel the first few pinches of panic in his throat. He’s not supposed to cry, for fuck’s sake. It’s not as if he hasn’t dealt with much worse over the course of his career. But sitting here near tears, beside Oscar, the race winner, who should be out partying and celebrating, brings a different kind of shame in Lando’s chest.
“I’m sorry about what Will said to you over the radio,” Oscar continues, voice dropping to a whisper. Lando looks at him, perplexed.
Oscar draws in a breath when he sees the moisture gathered in Lando’s eyes.
“We talked about it in the debrief? Your tyres were never dead,” Oscar points out. “And all that other stuff about remembering team meetings and winning a championship as a team, I just don’t think it’s right, man.”
None of this is registering in Lando’s mind. Yes, he knew Will was concealing part of the truth, but that’s what the strategists thought was best. It’s a little shitty to think about, but he’s always trusted this team and he knows they only move to do what’s best for him.
“I don’t–what do you–,” Lando begins, trying to find the right words to articulate what he wants to say.
I love this team. I might not always feel good about it, but I trust them. This is my team.
“It just felt a little like emotional blackmail to me,” Oscar admits, sighing. Lando blinks and he realizes a second too late that his tears have spilled over, cascading down his cheeks silently.
“Yeah,” Lando says even though he still doesn’t understand. It was a mistake in strategy, nothing more. Right?
Oscar’s forehead is pinched as he watches Lando’s face get wetter and wetter. He sniffles, crudely wiping away at his eyes as if inconvenienced by his own emotions.
They sit in silence for what feels like forever, Oscar’s legs still swinging occasionally, and Lando’s quiet hiccups the only thing breaking the stillness of the room. It takes a few more minutes for Lando’s breathing to steady again and once he’s completely silent, Oscar pushes himself off the table.
Lando’s heart sinks as he thinks Oscar is about to leave. There’s still so much he wants to say and they can’t just leave it at that.
“Wait, don’t go,” Lando calls out, a little more panicked than he would want to have sounded. Oscar pauses, looking at Lando as if he’d grown a second head.
“I’m not leaving,” Oscar reassures, facing Lando fully, both of them relatively at the same height with Lando seated on top of the massage table.
Lando nods, feeling a fresh wave of tears about to hit. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it out of his system.
“It’s so stupid,” Lando mutters, bowing his head and avoiding Oscar’s gaze once again.
Oscar doesn’t say anything for a while and Lando curses himself for what seems like the hundredth time that day. He asks himself why he can’t just stop saying nonsense shit and making it weird for everyone.
“What’s stupid?” Oscar asks, his hand reaching over to grip Lando’s arm. Lando looks up and nearly flinches at how hard Oscar is staring at him right now.
“Everything,” Lando says with a crack in his voice. “This should be good. It is good for the team, right? This is what everyone wanted.”
“And you won, but even you said sorry and it’s not even your fault and I should have just let you through earlier and we wouldn’t be in this mess but–”
“Lando.”
Lando stills, wincing slightly as he feels Oscar’s fingers tighten around his bicep. But he obeys nonetheless, letting whatever words he had left fall away.
“It’s done. And it’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I can’t say that no one is, but if it helps, I don’t blame you,” Oscar says, careful and slow, as if he wants, needs Lando to listen.
“You don’t?” Lando asks, voice pitching up at the end like a child asking for forgiveness. Oscar pauses then breaks out in a laugh, confusing Lando for a moment.
“No,” Oscar manages in between giggles. “No, Lando, I don’t. Why would I?”
Lando opens his mouth again and Oscar immediately shakes his head, laying his other hand on Lando’s chest.
“Don’t answer that,” Oscar says pointedly. Lando deflates, bottom lip jutting out slightly.
“Look, I know it’s all still a little confusing right now and we’ll definitely talk about it more in the next few days, but I think it’s safe to say that no one really wanted it to end this way,” Oscar explains.
“I won and that pretty much speaks for itself. And I want you to know that it’s partly thanks to you. If you hadn’t won back in Miami and chased down Max in Imola and gotten close all those other times, I wouldn’t have believed that both of us could win within the same year.”
“And don’t protest,” Oscar adds, holding up a finger in Lando’s face.
For the first time in hours, Lando cracks a genuine smile. A flash of white catches his eye as Oscar lowers his hand and he realizes once again that it’s the bracelet. Lando takes ahold of Oscar’s wrist, running his thumb over the beads.
“Oh,” Oscar says, realizing what Lando’s looking at.
“Where’s yours?”
Lando searches, eyes scanning around the room. He spots his own ‘Lando’ bracelet sitting atop a shelf to the side at the same time Oscar does. Oscar goes to retrieve it, grabbing Lando’s hand and gently turning it palm up.
Oscar slips the bracelet onto Lando’s wrist and all the air in his lungs seems to dissipate. Oscar peeks up through his lashes at Lando, a faint red hue dusting his cheeks ever-so-slightly.
The thumping of Lando’s heart is nearly deafening.
“We can keep them on,” Oscar says.
Lando lets out a shaky breath. “Does that mean we’re okay?”
Oscar smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “We’re okay.”
Lando nods, failing to realize that he’s still holding onto Oscar, still toying with his bracelet. It’s only when Oscar maneuvers his hand around gently to twine their fingers together, that Lando realizes what’s happening.
Before he can second guess what he’s doing, Lando leans forward, freezing when he sees he’s merely a breath away from kissing Oscar.
Oscar peers into Lando’s eyes, pupils blown wide as neither of them move. Lando is sure he’s shaking from nerves, anticipation, frustration, everything.
He instantly stills when Oscar closes the gap, brushing his lips against Lando’s, tentatively at first, before pressing harder against the older’s mouth. Lando inhales through his nose, reaching up with his other hand that wasn’t being held on by Oscar’s vice grip. He lays it tenderly against Oscar’s cheek just as their lips part simultaneously.
Lando groans when he feels Oscar lick into his mouth. His fingers creep up into the mass of brown hair atop Oscar’s head, threading between the silky strands.
“We should…stop,” Oscar whispers, pulling away slightly.
Lando’s expression must’ve been one of disappointment because Oscar lays a reassuring hand on his thigh, leaning back in for a shorter, sweeter kiss that sends a battalion of butterflies loose in Lando’s stomach.
“For now,” Oscar adds, smiling.
Lando nods, eyes trailing all over Oscar’s features, his own lips curving up at the corners. His heart is still out of control but for some reason, Lando doesn’t mind if he palpitates to death right at this moment.
“Congrats, Osc,” Lando whispers and Oscar immediately blushes.
“Thanks, Lando,” Oscar responds, beaming.