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Oscar likes his driver’s room, it’s tiny but hearty. He’s decorated it with the pictures in frames he’s received from his family at Christmas. In one of the corners, he’s put a bed, the mattress hidden under cream and brick coloured pillows and a blanket. Those four-square meters are his sanctuary of peace – his place to wind down after a terrible race or to nap after a particularly demanding one.
Oscar’s a big fan of privacy. It’s not that he has anything particular to hide, he merely enjoys intimacy. He holds a few secrets, sure – who doesn’t. Some things deserve to be stored in the no one needs to know drawer. He’s a firm believer in the right to mystery and personal space.
Lando, by contrast, appears to be entirely unfamiliar with the meaning of those words.
The Brit also owns a driver’s room, situated right next to Oscar’s, sharing a wall. No one would be able to guess its existence since the place has pretty much gone out of use in the last year, Lando spending all his free time invading Oscar’s. Whether it is to sulk in silence, gossip or play video games, the older man goes to find Oscar and appropriates the space around him. The growth from strangers to acquaintances to friends had been surprisingly rapid, though appreciable.
Lando’s whole aura and persona is appreciable, Oscar thinks.
Most of the time.
“What’s this?”
Lando’s lounging on the small single bed, one arm bent behind his head, holding it up, beach style. His eyes follow Oscar as he enters the room, skin still warm and hair humid from the shower. Lando’s back in his usual clothes – a pistachio green hoodie and washed blue jeans, his curls look soft and a lot more defined than moments before, weighed down with champagne and sweat. Evidently, He’d been quicker in the shower, but Oscar had lost time taking extra good care of himself.
Lando’s holding a phone in his right hand, but there’s no quadrant case, the back is naked, and Oscar can see the apple logo in between his fingers, as well as the scratch created in Miami last year when it had slipped and hit the pavement, which means – “That’s my phone.”
Oscar sits down on the chair by the wardrobe. He feels like death, drained to the bone and doesn’t even have a trophy to show for it. His weekend plans involve blissfully drifting through all three days in a slumberous haze.
Lando’s watching him; a smirk has made its way onto his face and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It kept ringing, mate.”
The Australian lets out a sigh, his lids falling to protect him from the offensive glow of the ceiling light. “It’s probably my mum.” She calls or texts him after every Grand Prix, Oscar thinks it’s to remind him that she’s loves him no matter the outcome of the race.
Lando hums. “Nah, it’s Jacob.”
It takes Oscar a second and a half to realize, open his eyes and leap off the chair to climb onto the bed and try to take back his phone, still clasped tightly in Lando’s hold. The Briton is giggling, fleeing by standing up on the blanket – no thoughts spared to the no shoes on the bed rule. Oscar follows, nearly falling over, balance influenced by fatigue.
“Give it back, Lando.”
Lando grins, holding the phone behind himself. “Who’s Jacob?”
Oscar crosses his arms above his chest. He knows what body language experts would say and they are in fact correct; he’s defensive and trying to bring himself comfort in a situation where he feels cornered and awkward and can’t predict its ending. “A friend.”
Lando brings the phone forward. The screen lights up as he taps it and scrolls down through the notifications. He gazes back up at Oscar who’s standing very still. “Theo a friend, too?” His voice doesn’t seem to hold any judgment or cruelty. “Grindr a good place to make friends?”
Oscar nods, palms moving to settle against his own ribs, holding himself. “As good as any.”
“Mmm, maybe I should try it, then.” Lando’s still going through the notifications and Oscar’s extremely thankful the Briton does not have access to his password. “You’ve made quite a few friends.”
Lando’s hand moves forward as he holds out the phone for Oscar to take. The Australian searches the other’s face to find anything. His gaze has gone soft, warm, but he’s still smirking, though it appears slightly more kind than before. “I’m just playing.”
Oscar’s shoulders move up in a shrug and he seizes the phone, turns the sound off and slides it into his pocket, before sitting down on the bed. He brings his hands up towards his face, holding it up by placing his elbows on his thighs. He sighs into his palms as he feels Lando settle next to him. “But it’s fine, you know.”
Oscar doesn’t dare move, like a prey caught by its predator, praying that if he plays dead, the Brit will move on and off the subject, forgetting that Lando is Lando and Lando does not let things go, does not enjoy conflict and will try and resolve any that seem to rise into existence. Which is a great thing in general and makes him a good friend but is not playing in Oscar’s advantage in this very moment.
“I won’t say anything to anyone, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“There’s nothing to say.” Oscar’s voice is muffled, rosy cheeks still hidden behind warm hands. “I’m not gay.”
The bed shifts as Lando giggles. “I know what grindr is, my guy.”
Truth be told, Oscar had downloaded the app in the early hours following a drunken outing. He’d been persuaded to go out with a few other drivers after the Monaco Grand Prix. Lando had begged him to, reminding him that it was his first podium of the season and that needed to be celebrated. Oscar had a hard time saying no to Lando these days, so he’d gone.
The night had gone by smoothly – the drinks kept on coming, alcohol gliding down his throat like a sweet reward for the day’s efforts, Lando leaning on his shoulder, giggles warming up Oscar’s bare neck, Logan downing shots with Max a few feet away - up until the Briton had left to explore the dancefloor accompanied by a blonde, leaving him alone with his gin and tonic.
He’d been playing with the orange umbrella, watching the ice float around inside the glass, when a guy had sat down on the stool beside his. The man had placed muscular looking arms decorated with tattoos on the bar, leaning forward to communicate his order to the bartender.
Oscar felt safe enough in his masculinity to admit when a guy was attractive, and this man most definitely was. His brown curls were cut into a mullet and his maroon short sleeved shirt had a few buttons opened to reveal a thin golden necklace, not that Oscar was particularly looking.
The man had then turned around, catching Oscar’s not so discreet eyes on him and his lips had instantly grown into a smirk. He’d introduced himself and asked “Alaric?” to which Oscar had answered “Nope.” The guy had then explained that he was supposed to meet a grindr match. They’d spoken for a bit, waiting for Alaric to show up; the man telling him about the nightlife in the city, the cool places to see, the restaurants to try, the stores to visit.
He’d offered Oscar a drink, before wishing him a good night - most likely to go and try to find his date - and holding out his right hand for the Australian to take. Oscar had complied, being pulled forward unexpectedly, their heads almost colliding. The Monegasque had whispered an invitation regarding his hotel room into his ears, which Oscar had refused, right after he’d shaken himself out of his stupor and managed to utter the words no, thank you, cheeks burning red.
He had not been interested, at all, but it had made him intrigued, curious.
Curious enough to download the dating app on the way home, in the back of a taxi, with an alcohol clouded mind. He’d just wanted to see. Take a look at the application’s structure, how it worked and what kind of dudes were on it. If, perhaps, he would end up finding Alaric.
He’d woken up the next day with a terrible headache, burning eyes and 12 messages, groaning at the sight of his own profile, devoid of any pictures and displaying only his first name, swearing to delete it expeditiously.
He just hasn’t gotten around to it, though he hasn’t opened any of the texts either.
It’s been a month.
“I was only looking.” Oscar mutters into the stretched-out silence and removes his palms from his face.
Lando has taken out his phone in the meantime, pulled up Candy Crush, he’s currently on level 681, been playing it a lot lately; on car rides, flights and in between team meetings. The Briton hums, gaze not leaving the screen, he’s got his focused face on, finger moving to fuse a colour bomb and a blue striped candy together, making the phone vibrate crazily until the screen shows the “you’ve won!” graphic.
Only then does he lift his stare, giving the younger man a soothing grin. “Right. Well, that’s fine too.”
Oscar nods his head in agreement. It’s fine.
•••
But is it?
Hours have gone by and Oscar’s back in his hotel room, lying face down, nose buried into the cushion. The fabric has a sweet floral scent, maybe cherry flower. It’s comfortable and somehow homely, as much as a resort can feel.
There’s a strange feeling building between his ribs; a blend of anxiety, fright and thrill. His chest feels tight, and his head feels loud, too many thoughts swimming through at once.
The air conditioning is on, and the low, steady blowing noise nearly acts as a lullaby. The fresh atmosphere feels nice and is a pleasant change from the hot day he’s gone through. If it renews the space’s air enough, maybe Oscar’s weird mood will disappear through the ventilation as well.
What a day.
Oscar turns around, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with the palm of his hands. On his nightstand, his phone vibrates, disturbing the sweet rhythm created by the ventilator. He extends his right arm to grab it, brings it closer to his face. There’s not point running away from civilisation, he’s bound to be found sometime.
As expected, there’s two missed calls from his mum and a text from Logan and under those, three messages linked to a yellow and black symbol.
Oscar takes a deep breath and sits up. He presses his index to his friend’s text.
Logan Sargeant | 20:43
Next week, padel?
The Australian ponders about it for a few seconds; thinks of his terrible aim and worse defence, and then of all the laughs and inside jokes they’ve now created with the others. He ends up responding yes sure could be fun, before focusing on the next notification received.
The message is hidden until he’s accessed the application. There’s only a name staring at him. He stares back, wonders if he should authorize himself to log onto it.
What’s the point anyway?
It’s a dating app. For dating. If he’s not gay, which he is not, he’s not going to date a man, which means the app is of no use for him and so is the message, which means he should not-
His breath catches in his throat.
Jacob does indeed seem nice. Real nice even.
Rich, deep brunet hair and delicate chocolate eyes half hidden by long lashes. In his profile picture, there’s no sign of a shirt, only a tan and toned chest.
He’s graced Oscar with a fuckboy worthy pickup line and as he reads it, his cheeks flush and his gaze travels all over the room, as if someone could jump out from hiding behind the couch.
Jacob | 24
Roses are red violets are fine you be the six I’ll be the nine
It appears he’s matched with Jacob earlier in the day, suggesting that the 24-year-old probably lives within a stone's throw of Oscar’s hotel.
Which does not matter. At all. Because why would it?
But wouldn’t it be impolite to leave his message unanswered? Oscar’s a polite man, would never dare to show any disrespect to anyone. He’s been better educated than to do such a thing. That’s the only reason why he slides up the keyboard and starts typing. For sure.
At first, he writes Thank you for your message, but it feels too random company’s help request received email, so he deletes it and replaces it with Thanks, you too but that does not make any sense and he ends up writing something even worse, panicking and throwing his phone across the room.
Oscar | 23
Yes
•••
It’s been four days, over seventy hours of relentless torment, replaying Sunday evening's events in his mind, when Oscar sets out to find Lando at lunch time. He finds the Brit at one of the square tables inside the McLaren motorhome, a chicken wrap waiting in front of him whilst he plays Candy Crush.
The Australian knows Lando’s waiting for him. He’d received a text early this morning that said “Lunch?” and Oscar had answered “Sure, when and where?” in between cardio and leg training.
They often meet up for their midday break and it always goes the same way; Lando gets a chicken wrap, and Oscar gets whatever his stomach desires - as long as it doesn’t go against his diet, Lando gossips, and Oscar listens, occasionally adding a remark here and there. On the odd occasion, Oscar arrives with some gossip too, but the older driver’s the usual tattletale.
Oscar places his cutlery and plate down and sits down on the opposite side, watching as Lando finishes off his level and sets his phone face down on the table. “Mate, I think I’m getting addicted to this darn game.” He’s taken hold of his sandwich and is removing the plastic covering.
“You think?” Oscar scoffs, taking the lid off his cardboard container, he’s chosen a chicken avocado rice poke bowl. Eating with Lando means giving up salmon. “Which level are you on?”
Taking a bite of his wrap, Lando shrugs. He chews mouth closed, letting a few seconds pass by as his gaze moves towards the left, thinking about it. “I’ve probably gone through like two hundred levels since Sunday.” His brows furrow. “Is that bad?” Oscar shrugs, that’s around fifty per day. At least, Lando’s being honest.
Speaking of honesty.
“I’m not gay.”
The Briton masticates slowly, gaze fixed to Oscar’s. No matter how much time Oscar spends looking into them, he can never fully figure out which colours are swimming in his orbs. Your eyes have a little green in them, he wants to say, as cliché as it is. It would make Lando laugh, and Oscar loves watching Lando laugh.
“Whatever you’re into, it’s fine.” There’s sincerity wrapping around Lando’s words as they roll off his tongue carefully and it snaps the Australian out of his staring.
Oscar continues his train of thoughts before it can be interrupted by embarrassment or second guessing. “When’s the last time you had sex?”
Lando chokes and coughs, pieces of chicken nearly flying past his lips. He places his palm atop his chest and clears his throat. He inhales loudly as he places his lunch down. “Well, it’s been, like, two weeks.”
Lando’s on raya, a dating app reserved for celebrities and such. The subscription fee is astronomical, but the Brit does get a good amount of usage out of it. In what world wouldn’t he? A charming, self-assured, affluent young bloke. Especially during summer, when his skin’s bronzy and his curls constantly shine in the sun’s glow.
“What, you getting rusty?” Lando’s got his signature smirk on, gaze turning malicious, bordering on wicked.
They don’t usually discuss their sex lives, except when Lando brings it up, but Oscar never does. He’s discreet, cautious about what he decides to disclose or store in his aforementioned no one needs to know drawer. “Yeah, I guess.” The cutlery is still untouched next to his dish. “I’m meeting someone tonight.”
Lando’s wiggling his eyebrows, smirk ever so present. “A date?”
“No.” It’s not a date. It’s pizza at an arcade. With a bloke. Organised via grindr. But, still, not a date.
“Why’d you ask that then?” Lando rolls his eyes as he unlocks his phone and opens the Candy Crush app.
And yeah- Checkmate. Lando’s queen just ate his king. Oscar does not know how to answer or continue on, is not a good quick thinker. What was he even imagining, bringing this up with Lando. Where could this conversation even go. What was he thinking-
“D’you need help getting ready?” Lando’s chin is placed in the palm of his hand. Oscar is at a loss for words. “Perhaps you need a wise, hot man’s guidance.” There’s a wink sent his way to punctuate the sentence. “You could be my protégé.”
•••
“You should pay tonight. It’s, like, the rule of first dates.”
“Not a date.”
Lando’s standing in front of Oscar’s wardrobe, right hand on his waist and left around his own face. He looks pensive. And deeply unsatisfied with the clothes the Australian has chosen to travel with to Austria.
“Do you even own nice clothes?” The Briton takes a step forward, slides his fingers through the different shirts hanging. His nose scrunches up. “Those are not date appropriate.”
Oscar rolls his eyes from where he’s sitting on the bed. “Rude. And still not a date.”
Lando turns around, gestures towards his teammate. “What’re you so stressed out for then?” He raises his eyebrows to accentuate the question, and they nearly meet his hairline, hidden behind the curls.
And. That’s a good question, isn’t it?
Oscar’s gaze lowers to his lap, where he’s holding his own hands, making his fingers touch. Does he really look that stressed? He does not feel- No, yeah, he does. “I want to make a good first impression.” Is this a normal thing to feel and say about a non-date rendezvous?
Lando hums, turns back around. “Not a date. Yes. Sure.” And if the words weren’t bleeding sarcasm, the silence that follows would assuredly convey it in a way.
Lando knows. Oscar knows that Lando knows. Does Lando know that Oscar knows that Lando knows? Surely.
Is there anything to know, anyway? It’s not really a date. It’s pizza in an arcade. With a bloke.
And Oscar’s not into blokes.
It’s just curiosity.
What is it that people say about curiosity?
“Try this.” Lando’s standing in front of him, holding out a baby blue shirt. “It’ll bring out your eyes.” His grin feels gentle and sincere and his gaze travels down the younger man’s front, like he’s thinking about, imagining it.
“Thank you.” Oscar takes the garment into his hold, his hand only just brushing Lando’s but the warmth he feels from the slight touch awakens goosebumps up his arm. “I hope I’ll look good.”
“You always do.”
•••
Curiosity killed the cat.
The meeting doesn’t go terrible, but it doesn’t go great either.
Lando asks three times if he can come with as emotional support “I swear I’ll stay like ten meters away at all times” and after the third no he still repeats his demand a fourth time.
Oscar’s almost terrified Lando’ll follow him anyway.
Lukas is kind and extremely skilled at pool, but Oscar beats him at bowling. He’s got a good sense of humour and seems to appreciate Oscar’s. His jokes are pronounced with a hint of accent, it adds up to the charm. He’s got dark brown hair and light green eyes. He pays for their drinks, two beers, pushing Oscar’s card away. They share a pizza and as they exit the place, almost a kiss, but Oscar takes a step back, whole body going rigid and chest feeling tight.
Realization sinking in.
He stutters a weak I’m so sorry and rushes to his car without sparing a look back.
If Lando had indeed followed him to the arcade, he would have seen the sheen of a shy tear threaten to slide down Oscar’s rosy cheek.
But tucked into his hotel room’s bed thirty minutes later, he’s overwhelmed with regret.
•••
Austria’s a sprint weekend and Oscar’s never been so thankful for one.
He does not have time to think of the disaster he’s lived through and created on Thursday night. He qualifies third on Friday and finishes second the next day, meeting with Lando on the podium.
But it’s not a real second place. It’s a sprint second place.
Saturday’s qualifying’s less kind to him and he must be content with a 7th place start after his time gets deleted.
Oscar is in his driver’s room drying his post-shower damp hair when Lando joins him. He’s still wearing his fireproofs and team branded papaya cap, race suit tied loosely around his waist. He’s holding a white towel over his shoulders. There are droplets of sweat making their way out of his hair and down his jawline, ending their enticing promenade in the crook of his neck. Oscar’s eyes follow the trajectory like they follow max’s redbull during post-race performance review. With focus and want.
“How’d the date go?”
Oscar lets himself fall onto the chair, letting the cloth drop to the floor. “Not a date.” He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to put some oumpf into it. He has no idea how to style it when it gets long like this and will probably end up cutting it as soon as he finds someone to do it. “Terrible.” He tries not to let any disappointment leak through his tone.
It does not work.
Lando sits down at the foot of the bed. “Oh. Sorry.” And he does sound like he is, but-
“Not your fault.” Entirely my own, don’t know what I was thinking. Oscar’s shoulders move up in a shrugging motion.
In truth, Oscar feels utterly terrible. Primarily for leading Lukas on, but there’s also a tiny little hidden part of his being that feels like he missed his chance.
“Was the shirt appreciated?”
Oscar doesn’t mention it, but he does notice the lack of pronouns in Lando’s phrase. There’s something sweet and touching about it. Seems like he’s being careful with his words, which is not a Lando thing. The Briton’s usually bold, extremely forward and fluent in innuendos. He does not hold back, expresses himself with confidence Oscar wishes he could possess.
And he looks darn good doing it. The audacity and the mischief make part of his charm.
The younger man knows Lando’s holding back intimate comments and questions for his sake. After a year and a half of spending most of Lando’s awaken time in his company, Oscar’s gained a great amount of knowledge about his teammate turned friend and could put pen to paper to create the Lando Norris’ instruction booklet.
Oscar nods, his gaze fleeing from Lando’s to his own hands to the meter of hardwood floor between their feet to Lando’s eyes once more. He’s still watching him, face neutral.
Oscar lowers his own to his lap, unfamiliar timidity taking over his chest. He suddenly does not know what to do with his hands, needs to do anything. He ends up bringing it up to his hair, brushing his fringe backwards and ruffling it slightly.
Lando lets a few seconds go by before rising from the bed, race suit sliding down to rest around his hips. “Good. You looked good.” He steps towards the opened door and is halfway through it as he stops and turns to face Oscar. “You should leave your hair. It looks great. The swoops.”
The door closes and Oscar exhales.
The silence is deafening.
•••
One moment, Oscar’s standing on the second step of the podium, listening to the United Kingdom’s national anthem and the next, there’s champagne tangling up his hair and sweat in his eyes. There’s laughter building in his throat and delight taking over his body and mind. His grin feels too big for his face, almost hurts his cheeks.
It feels incredible to be back up here, like being ingulfed in a warm embrace from a loved one, except that along with the warmth comes the stickiness.
Lando’s not here to celebrate with him and it feels strange, wrong even, like something’s amiss.
Oscar’s eyes sting as he steps back into the garage. He’s rubbing them, a poor attempt at getting the mixture of sweat and champagne to disappear when he’s indeed pulled into a hug. He does not need his sight to know who’s holding him. He breathes in, sweat and cologne mixing in his nostrils.
Lando’s clean cream shirt is soft under his fingertips. It feels like being held by a cloud. Oscar wants to beg him to stay right there, to hold him until the sun rises. He wants to bathe in the warmth.
When Lando pulls back, he’s grinning, the polite smile he usually keeps for the post-race interviews when all he actually wants to do is scream, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The practiced façade masking private gloom. “Good job, mate.”
And because Oscar’s lost in Lando’s blueish green orbs, he says, “Thanks, you too.”
Lando furrows his brows, grimaces. “Nah.” A soft chuckle escapes his mouth.
Oscar forces out a laugh, clears his throat and tries to think of something. “You did your best.”
The older man nods, he takes a step back, moving from one foot to the other. He’s staring at the concrete floor, holding his own hands behind his back. He looks like he wants to add something else but is holding back or doesn’t quite know how to formulate it into a sentence. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth with his teeth, his tongue darting out to wet it.
“I’m disappointed, mad even.”
“Yeah?” As much as Lando frequently overshares, his feelings are not often brought up. At least, not to Oscar.
“Yeah.” Lando’s looking around the garage as he nibbles at the inside of his cheek. “I’m not in the mood to go out, obviously.” He sighs, rolls his eyes. The illusion of glee is falling apart, real emotions showing through the make-believe mask. Oscar hopes Lando knows he does not have to pretend with him. “There’s liquor in the minibar. If you want to come play FIFA later.”
Oscar does not need alcohol nor video games to agree to a soiree in Lando’s room, so it goes without saying, “Yeah, sure, text me your room number.”
•••
Lando’s lounging on his bed, both hands holding his phone above his face, sound blasting, when Oscar enters the room, closing the door behind himself. The Australian settles on the couch, whilst Lando stands up and goes to sit facing him on the armchair.
“What d’you want?” Between them is placed a coffee table decorated with three different kinds of liquor bottle. He gestures at each of them as he lists what they’re containing, “Vodka, Gin, Rhum?”
Oscar points at the clear ABSOLUT bottle. “D’you have a redbull?”
Lando chuckles, rolling his eyes. “As luck would have it, I was about to put them in the bin.” He rises, pushing himself off the armchair and walks straight to the room’s fridge and back, placing two cans on the table in front of Oscar.
The younger man takes hold of the two clear glasses, pouring a safe amount of Vodka into them before emptying a can in each, filling them up almost completely. He slides one towards Lando, who only grins at him.
Lando brings it to his lips, tossing his head back as he swallows the liquid, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He lets out a soft ahh when he’s done.
The older man’s leaning into the armchair’s backrest, toned arms placed on the brown manchette. “Truth or dare?” He’s holding his drink in his right hand, fingers tapping lightly against the glass.
Oscar rises an eyebrow; this is not what he was expecting. “Weren’t we supposed to play FIFA?”
“But this is more fun, isn’t it?”
Lando’s tone is bordering whiny, and his lips move into a pout, like he’s actually desperate to play this child game, so Oscar nods slowly, hopes and begs for the gods’ clemency, whoever they may be. “Truth.”
Oscar has not played truth or dare in years. Probably since he’s quit boarding school to devote his whole time to formula one. Back in the day, he’d only ever picked truth, scared of what dare would entail and not wanting his first kiss to be received through a challenge.
Alone in a room with Lando and alcohol, Oscar’s not sure what he should be afraid of.
“Was it a date?”
He’s afraid of that exactly, actually.
It feels like something's stuck in his throat, keeping his voice hostage, and it’s not alcohol but maybe it could help, so he seizes his drink and downs most of the liquid.
“Wednesday night.” Lando ads when Oscar does not answer right away, as if the younger driver could misunderstand the question.
Oscar takes a deep breath, swallows his saliva slowly, and nods. “Yeah. Think so.”
It’s a confession to Lando, sure, but also to himself. He’s been lying to himself, about a bunch of things, but mainly about his true intentions throughout the planning and the night itself.
Truth is, the plan was to get it all out of his system, the want, the curiosity, the strange feeling in his gut. It had not worked, not even a little. The plan had gone down in flames before it had even started, burning Oscar’s knowledge of himself with it.
Lukas had been attractive, kind and funny. It had felt good, spending the evening with him. He did not know who Oscar was, or he’d pretended to be unaware. It had been nice, being able to reinvent himself for one night, be someone else.
It was never meant to last.
“Alright. Me now. I pick dare.”
Very Lando of you, Oscar wants to say. He chuckles instead, watches Lando toy with his glass. “Your glass is half empty, down in one?”
Oscar does not encourage unwise or excessive consumption of alcohol.
Lando giggles, straight up giggles and downs the vodka. Oscar stares at the line of his throat, the way it moves as the older driver swallows.
Oscar pulls on his shirt’s collar. Maybe he’s caught a cold, drenched in champagne with the wind blowing. Perhaps he’s got a fever. Did Lando turn the heating on?
“Truth or dare?” Lando asks as he replenishes his cup.
He’s no more courageous than five minutes ago. “Truth.”
“Did he kiss you?”
So, it appears they’ve dropped the pretence.
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
Oscar feels a tight knot in his stomach. A surge of anxiety and dread washes over him. His mind feels dizzy.
Lando’s staring at him, features soft and sharp at the same time. He’s shaved his facial hair, that’s new. He must have done it between the race and now, the skin must be smooth to the touch.
His green eyes hold gentle hints of blue, reminiscent of dew-kissed leaves shrouded in early morning fog.
He wants to look away, even if it’s an admission of guilt and fear. But he’s stuck, entranced, held captive by Lando’s gaze.
He’s standing on the edge of a precipice and all there is left to do now is to decipher whether he’s brave enough to jump into an ocean of uncertainties.
Oscar inhales deeply.
And jumps.
“Perhaps, yeah.” The confession rolls off his tongue and leaves a bitter taste behind. Oscar wants to swallow it back down instantly, but the words are out and floating around the room. Oscar’s heart’s pounding in his chest, a wild drumbeat echoing his internal turmoil.
Lando raises his drink, seeming to savour the moment before taking a deep, deliberate sip. As he sets the cup down, a faint smirk dances on his lips.
Oscar desperately wants to lick it off him.
Wait.
He shakes his head, hoping the thought will dislodge itself and vanish.
Alcohol and exhaustion are a poor combination.
“I thought so. But you were adamant about it not being a date.” Lando leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, the posture a silent testament to his intense focus. “Why didn’t you kiss him?” His face takes on a look of gentle puzzlement, brows furrowed as if searching the depths of an unfathomable mystery.
As if Oscar would make the first step with anyone.
A bloke, nevertheless.
“It was a guy.”
Lando’s brow furrows as he tilts his head slightly, the words seeming to swirl around him like a perplexing fog.
“You went on a date with a dude. And then you were surprised it was a dude?”
And stated this way, Oscar recognizes it does not make sense in the slightest. But somehow, it does. To him. “I got scared.” Oscar’s voice is steady, despite the turbulence of his emotions.
There’s desiring and there’s knowing people around could see and recognise him.
There’s wanting and there’s fearing taking too much pleasure in it.
Lando’s gaze softens. “It’s okay, you know.” He begins, voice low and soothing. “No one would care. And it’s none of their business anyway.”
Oscar understands the words are meant to comfort him, but he knows them to be untrue. The sad reality is the media would have a field day if pictures were released and truths were told.
But he does hold hope that one day his solace might come.
He offers a faint smile, which Lando mirrors. The Briton rises to his feet and circles the table, reaching Oscar. He settles down next to him, their knees almost touching. Too close and too far away at the same time.
Lando gently places his palm on Oscar’s shoulder, a gesture of quiet reassurance. Oscar leans into it, finding comfort in the touch. Lando deciphers the silent request, enveloping Oscar in a warm, gentle hug.
As they embrace, the bonds of their friendship strengthen, forged in the light of truth.
•••
On Monday, Oscar boards his flight to London at half past thirteen and does not see a single second of it. Morpheus has been a close friend of his lately. He’s picked up at the airport and driven to the MTC in an uber Mark has ordered for him. He spends the remainder of the afternoon and evening in meetings, before being granted leave around twenty.
The hotel room the team has booked for him is simple. White curtains, a grey couch and a cream comforter. Looks and feels like most he’s occupied in the past year. There’s a small tv mounted on the wall and the Netflix logo is staring back at him.
From his Instagram stories, Oscar knows Lando’s still in Monaco.
Henry though, he’s a mile away. With defined abs and deep blue eyes Oscar could swim in.
On Tuesday, the Australian unpacks his training apparel and meets Logan for padel. He loses but rewards himself with a warm shower and waffles, though they are certainly not on Kim's authorized food list. It’s fun, sharing elevenses with Logan.
He’s savouring the moment, basking in the warmth of a lifelong friendship, but there’s a question burning his tongue. He clears his throat, pinching his lips between his teeth. “D’you think I’ve changed?”
Logan’s staring at him with furrowed brows. He’s still chewing, his jaw oscillating up and down. He takes his sweet time thinking about the question and coming up with an answer. As he swallows, Oscar braces himself, though he does not know what for. “Nah.”
Underwhelming. “D’you think I’m still the same?”
Logan appears perplexed. “No.” Oscar can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he processes the question. “At your core, your character remains unchanged. But you’ve also grown. You’re not the same, but you’re you. Better too. Stronger. And more confident.” A faint shrug concludes the statement.
The words are voiced warmly, each one deliberate and measured.
Oscar knows Logan is speaking his truth. It means more than his friend could imagine.
“Poetic.”
Logan snorts, Oscar giggles.
In his profile picture, William is laughing too.
He has perfect teeth, the kind that could easily be featured in a brochure.
Oscar is scrolling through his profile when he receives a message from Lando.
Lando Norris | 12:02
Think I got the room next to urs
•••
“So, what’s your type?”
Lando’s in Oscar’s room, just like on Tuesday evening and on Wednesday afternoon.
The first time, he’d shown up with a bottle of passion fruit Gatorade and a white chocolate protein bar in one hand and a wooden chess box in the other, screaming: “Hiya neighbour!”
So, they had spent the evening together, around the room’s coffee table, enjoying a game of chess. Oscar had emerged victorious, no surprise there, having polished his skills since childhood.
The few hours had been filled with laughter and joy.
On Wednesday, he’d arrived with a pack of UNO cards and gossip overheard at paddle.
Lando was that night’s victor, finishing with an action card. Oscar had contested the win, saying “that’s not allowed!” in an offended tone, but contrary to popular – and Oscar’s – beliefs, the UNO twitter account had confirmed themselves the rule was not an official one. Lando had been quick to pull up the tweet, mocking Oscar by sticking his tongue out at him.
Today, media has been torture and Oscar’s still both annoyed and exhausted when someone knocks on his door as he’s pulling a clean McLaren white tee over his freshly washed hair. But, as he lets the other driver in, holding a Battleship box, contentment takes over him anyway. Oscar has not played in years.
Lando speaks as he’s placing the boards on the bed. They are each seated on opposite sides of the bed, facing one another. Oscar’s taken by surprise; he’s not expecting the question. They hadn't broached the topic since the week prior, and Oscar had assumed the issue was settled.
He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, eyebrows furrowing, struggling to find the right words.
He does not know.
The whole sexuality awakening thing had not been easy. At all.
Was it men? Women? Both?
Brown hair? Blond? Green eyes? Blue? Brown?
Oscar’s shoulders rise in a shrug. “I don’t know.”
Lando’s gaze moves up to meet his, brows furrowing. Oscar knows he’s been attracted to quite a few people these past few weeks, but is there a significant criteria to pull his interest? If he must answer, “Intellect. Humour.”
“Nah.” Lando rolls his eyes and emits a sigh as he pulls out the boats from the cardboard box. “That’s cute but no.” There’s a hint of a smile hiding at the corner of his lips. “Like, what’s hot? What gets your heart pumping?” A wink concludes the sentence.
Oscar feels the warmth spreading as a crimson blush takes over his nose. He knows damn well the subject is not his heart. There’s no words coming out of him, no answer to satisfy Lando’s strange curiosity, so he says, “Show me your grindr.”
The Australian’s quick to refuse, shaking his head and muttering a firm no. But Lando’s pleading, joining his hands to simulate a prayer and saying please, c’mon, I won’t judge, please.
Oscar is not weak. Oscar is strong.
But Oscar is exhausted. And Lando is giving him his best puppy dog eyes.
Oscar yields, watches as Lando scrolls through his matches silently. He does not open any messages, only looks at the pictures. He’s sitting cross-legged on the plain hotel comforter. His shoes are arranged by the door and his socks are decorated by cutouts of Alex’s face.
At some point, he hums and returns the phone to Oscar. He nods, seeming deep in thought. “Brunets. Curly hair.” He murmurs, before fishing his own mobile out of his pocket and handing it to Oscar. “My raya.”
Oscar takes it from him and it’s his time to scroll. A blonde girl, a brunette, two gingers and then, men.
One, two, three. A few more.
Oscar gazes from the phone, to Lando and back to the screen, where there’s a hot bloke staring back at him. Bare-chested. “Oh.” He feels stuck in time, right thumb barely touching the screen. “So.”
“Yeah.” The Briton’s voice is steady, his face neutral, devoid of any fear. “See, it’s fine.”
Oscar is in shock. “Since when?”
“Like, a year or so.”
Oscar nods slowly, the surprise fading into some form of. Hope? The phone feels heavy in his hands, as heavy as the weight on his chest, the burning feeling taking over it.
Lando gestures towards the boards. “D’you want to start, or shall I?”
•••
Silverstone comes and goes, thoughts and realisations spiralling in his brain.
It’s the team’s home race as well as Lando’s.
And Lewis’, who stands proudly on the top step of the podium, kissing his first-place trophy and holding the Union Jack as God Save the King plays.
Oscar watches it happen from the garage, on the TVs, surrounded by the mechanics who stayed back.
His eyes keep drifting towards Lando.
Brunet. Curly hair.
He can’t seem to move. Though he strongly needs a shower.
There’s a strange warmth building in the pit of his stomach. Something tight, unknown.
Lando’s glooming, clenching his fists with intensity.
On Friday, he’d told Oscar that after tasting first place, anything less felt now terrible and insignificant.
Whether joyful or dissatisfied, Lando looks good. Oscar thinks he’s made to stand up there, like a god towering above simple humans. He’s got the charisma and the charm.
Oscar understands why the ladies go crazy about him.
Something about the inviting sophisticated green eyes and the sun kissed caramel skin, the dark espresso curls and the toned muscles. Something about the gentle melody of his laughter.
A mechanic nearby applauds, and Oscar almost jumps.
•••
Oscar is tired. Way too tired to be standing at a bar’s entrance, getting carded.
Lando had asked and Oscar hadn’t been able to refuse.
The Briton is leading him in, holding him by the hand and slyly manoeuvring through the ocean of bodies. Lando’s fingers feel tight around his, warm and soft. As they approach the VIP lounge, the crowd thins out and Oscar can see a few other drivers are already accommodated on the sofas, near a round table, where a bottle of champagne sits in its middle, surrounded by ice, in a bucket.
Charles is the first to greet them as they approach.
Lando lets go of Oscar’s hand.
Oscar takes a seat next to the Monegasque, and Lando sits down next to him, thighs touching. Logan and Alex are seated on the other couch. Soon, they are joined by George. Carlos a little later, just as they are about to pop the second bottle of champagne.
They drink two bottles, five bottles, and then some more, all offered by the club, and at somehow, Oscar finds himself in the middle of sweaty figures, body moving under fluorescent lights. His skin feels burning hot, his mind is hazy, clouded by fatigue and alcohol. His surroundings are moving uncomfortably fast around him, so he closes his eyes to avoid losing his balance. Music is flowing around him.
Oscar’s not used to this. The crowd. The loud music. The body snaking up next to his.
Hands move to grip his hips as he sways to the music. Twisting in the person's hold, he finds himself nearly nose to nose with Lando. Small droplets of sweat are forming on his forehead, the dark curls falling onto it.
A shaky breath escapes him. A rush of warmth spreads through him, his skin feels burning hot. He’s inflamed.
Lando’s staring at Oscar’s mouth as if it’s a three-course meal at a 5 stars restaurant.
They are moving in harmony, bodies hovering over one another.
Oscar feels like he’s floating. Stuck in a cloud. A deep, electric current of desire stirs within him.
Lando bites his lower lip, his mouth stretching into a grin, eyes moving back up to meet Oscar’s, tugging him even closer. Lando’s breath feels warm as it brushes against Oscar’s ear. “See, isn’t this nice?”
He pulls back, a marvellous smirk placed on his lips. His whole expression spells mischief.
Oscar’s mind is cloudy with alcohol and a sense of craving. His throat feels dry. "Yeah." His words are accompanied by a gentle nod.
Lando’s head dips into Oscar’s neck. The two men move in close harmony, their figures entwined on the dance floor, their movements synchronized. Lando’s hands are still placed onto the Australian’s waist. It feels more intimate than it should.
Music is flowing around them, Oscar recognises The Next Episode by Dr. Dre, but the Liu remix. He wonders if Lando used his notoriety to request for it specifically.
Oscar is fairly certain that the Briton could ask him for anything, and he would grant it without hesitation.
Lando withdraws from Oscar’s throat. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes have a glazed look. The slightly dishevelled appearance a hint of his inebriation. He’s so close, Oscar could count his lashes.
“Are you going to kiss me?” The outrageous question escapes his lips before he can catch it. His heart races erratically, nearly falling out of his chest. He does not know where the courage came from, the desperate hunger has been hidden deep within his bones for so long he shivers as it melts out of him and into the space between their mouths.
There’s a dangerous sparkle shining in Lando’s eyes as he shuffles closer once more, words spoken directly into Oscar’s ear. It makes him tremble with anticipation. “D’you want me to?”
•••
Lando’s holding his hand once again as he pulls him through the densely packed crowd. He’s snaking easily in between the sea of sweaty bodies, accustomed to manoeuvring through clubs and bars. Oscar does not know where they are heading, but he would follow Lando anywhere, without any question, anyway.
The Briton is dressed in a cream shirt and black fitted trousers that leave nothing to the imagination. Oscar knows Lando’s undone the blouse’s top three buttons simply because he always does. He knows how to dress to attract and hold everyone’s attention and desire.
Lando’s a bombshell.
Lando’s a bloke and he’s hot.
And he’s pulling him into a dark empty room, pushing him against the closed door.
There’s a warm hand being placed on Oscar’s cheek and moving down gently and slowly down to settle on his neck, until it disappears, and the light is switched on, casting Lando’s perfect face in a soft glow.
In that moment, Oscar wonders why he ever doubted being into men.
Lando’s beauty is art. His facial hair has grown back slightly, his chin rough to the touch. Meeting his gaze is alike to swimming through the ocean, its green, but blue, and cold but pleasant. He’s lost in the waves, wrapped up in a gentle embrace.
No one could ever compare to him.
Oscar’s breathing heavily as Lando’s lips finally crash into his.
Signing his formula one contract be damned, this is the most magical moment of his life.
Lando’s crowding into him. There are frantic sounds escaping Oscar and he’s not proud of the desperation radiating off of him. In the back of his mind, Oscar notes that Lando’s moaning too, soft and low, as their mouths move hungrily together.
The touches are urgent but soft as they hold onto each other. Oscar’s hands are in Lando’s hair whilst Lando’s grasping his hips.
At some point, Oscar pulls away enough to separate their lips, but keeps his fingers tangled into the Briton’s curls. Brunet. Curly hair.
They are both panting, loud intakes of breath filling up the room.
Oscar is anxious to find Lando’s gaze, unsure of what he’ll find there. Resentment, regret, shame? But there’s a finger sliding under his chin and pulling him forward, into a delicate peck. As Lando places his forehead against his, Oscar exhales. « God. I think I’m gay. »
Lando chuckles, the sound rich and melodious. Oscar could compose a sonata from it. « Took you long enough. »
Oscar pushes him, but laughs all the same. « I saw and I conquered. »
Lando raises his eyebrows suggestively. « There’s still one part left, then. »
Oscar’s giggles shifts quickly into moans.
He feels light, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Or maybe it’s Lando holding him up against the wall.
Whatever it may be, he feels good.