Archive of Our Own

Click. 

It happens before Oscar notices the dark lens to his right, the reflective glass trained on him for a fleeting moment before it dips down to reveal fluffy brown curls and a soft smile.

The expression on Lando’s face is unbridled. His eyebrows–which had previously been furrowed in concentration–relax with the movement of his arm, gleaming eyes creasing at the corners. He feels something rise in his chest, coupled with the sensation of a balloon tugging the corners of his mouth upward. A faint flush reaches his ears when Oscar’s eyes reach his. 

“Huh?” Oscar lets out, puzzled. Tawny umber wisps cover his forehead in sectioned clouds, different from the usual parted strands that would frame his face. This time, the hair rests gently, almost long enough to reach his eyes. It’s different, Lando thinks. 

He likes it. More than he’d like to admit actually–his hands grip tighter around the curved body of the camera. It’s taking more effort than normal to prevent his hands from crossing the air between them and ruffling Oscar’s hair. He imagines it’d look messy, not in the way it typically looks after Oscar removes his balaclava–disheveled and frantically fleeting from his head–but in the way that feels right when his hair scatters perfectly under Lando’s touch. 

“Lando?” The Brit snaps out of his trance and follows Oscar’s voice to his eyes. “Did you hear? We’re meeting with our engineers before practice tomorrow.” 

“When?” His attention perks up when he realizes how fast time passes during race week. 

“It’s in your calendar,” Oscar chuckles. “If you read it…unless you need me to read it for you?” His lighthearted jab almost comes across seriously, except Lando knows it’s in Oscar’s nature to be incredibly blunt. Underneath his stoic expression, he’s probably cackling to himself as he would to Lando behind closed doors.

He nearly forgets the presence of a few media members standing a meter away. They’re looking at their camera viewfinders, swiping through a few frames of the drivers’ brief interaction. At least two of those would make it onto the McLaren page. 

Not that Lando minds, of course–not when he finds himself scrolling through Instagram at the end of the day, staring at images of every perspective of him and Oscar (mostly Oscar) to see how they look in others’ eyes. To see how Oscar looks in perspectives other than his own. He wants to know if their lenses also capture Lando’s point of view, just a few inches shy of the Aussie’s eye level and close enough in proximity to catch the tiny freckles dotting his complexion–and most likely every expanse of his skin. 

Lando’s face heats up quickly. Oscar doesn’t notice though, he’s already dipping through the sparse crowd of workers in the paddock, presumably to refresh his training on the simulator or walk the track with his race engineer. He looks over his shoulder once, a hand raised in a small wave. Lando grins back. He can’t help it when his camera raises to his eye, creating a tunneled view of Oscar’s disappearing silhouette. 

The driver looks carefree, even with his back turned. Maybe it’s in his stance, or the way his shoulders drop back in their usual position, or how his head tilts upward to look at the sky. Rain clouds loom in the distance, the sun isn’t due for at least a few hours, but Oscar continues to look anyway. Regardless, Lando’s certain that Oscar carries the sunshine with him because it’s uncanny how often Lando feels his warmth when he’s close by. 

He smiles to himself and can’t wait to browse the photos on his own time.

–

It’s media day, and the two drivers are making stroopwafels. Lando holds his phone camera upright for a quick snapshot, holding in a giggle behind the screen. 

He’s watching as Oscar cuts out the round wafer shapes, rising on his toes for more leverage. His hair flops lightly with each attempt and Lando can’t help but crack a smile when his gaze falls on Oscar’s face. The Aussie’s expression is focused and poised, similar to the face he makes when concentrating on a racing sim, listening in team meetings, or even typing a quick response via text. It’s an expression Lando has gotten to know very well–he’s memorized the small furrow in his brows, the slight press of his lips, the unwavering focus on whatever grasps his attention–in this case, the stroopwafel. 

It’s cute . Lando pauses. Cute? He can’t seem to remember when he first thought Oscar was cute but then again, he was never not cute. Who could say that the boy standing in front of him– fluffy strands of hair shifting as he tilts his head to inspect the circular wafer–was anything but?

“Okay.” Oscar responds to the chef as the latter delineates the steps. 

“You cut it like this,” the chef begins, slicing the wafel swiftly through the middle to separate the thin layers. The pieces fall onto the workstation in clean rounds. 

“Yep…” Oscar accepts the knife from him and begins to work the blade through his soon-to-be stroopwafel. “...and split it,” he mutters, walking himself through the directions. 

The Brit watches from a short distance, half remembering the directions for his turn, half wondering how funny it’d be if Oscar were an actual pastry chef. White apron tied around his waist, silver whisk in hand, delicate fingers placing tiny mint garnishes on a petit gateau . Oscar Pastry . How fitting. He blinks and shifts his focus to Oscar’s hands where he’s now holding two circular halves. 

“Mmm,” he hums, a strong whiff of the batter and lightly browned wafers bring him back to other times he attempted cooking with Oscar. Looking back, there weren’t many instances where they found themselves in a kitchen together; however, each moment had left Lando hoping for another excuse to see Oscar’s endearing look of concentration and his doe-eyed look whenever something catches his attention. 

“Feel like I’ve not done that very well, but–” Oscar begins. 

Lando’s mouth runs faster than he can think. “It’s perfect.” Oscar takes the spatula to scoop up the syrupy filling as the Brit continues his commentary, “Now put a load on–” Lando chuckles at the insinuation. He notices a tiny upturn on the boy’s mouth. “Overflow it.” 

It’s nearly indiscernible, but Lando hears a small huff of laughter from Oscar, who’s too aware of the cameras filming him on either side of Lando to let the laugh reach his diaphragm. He’d laugh about the commentary later, the Brit knows because it always happens this way–Oscar waiting for the right moment to debrief and give them a semblance of privacy during off-duty conversations.

“It’s perfect,” Oscar says candidly. “Boom.” The stroopwafel lands anticlimactically onto a metal tray with a little ‘plop.’

Cameras cut, and Oscar reaches up to lick the caramel-like syrup residue from his fingers, eyes finally lifting up from where they’d previously held steady. 

Lando blushes. It’s a tiny blush, although prominent enough for Oscar to notice the pink in his cheeks and smile sheepishly back. There’s some brevity in their eye contact, though it remains long enough for Lando’s eyes to flit momentarily down to Oscar’s lips before the latter turns away quickly to clean his hands properly with a towel. 

“You want to eat some now?” Lando asks. 

“Sure, we’ll eat these ones,” Oscar points to the tray of previously made examples from multiple video-takes beforehand. “Yours won’t make the cut.” Oscar jokes, and Lando knows it’s true because he’s too impulsive during assembly. On another tray sits Lando’s overfilled stroopwafels, some of them cracked or shaved off from trying to slice the wafel hastily. Others are less fortunate–either half bitten or simply drowned in filling. 

“You’re joking, Osc. I reckon these taste twice as good as yours. You forgot to put a load on like I said.”

“You can’t even pick that one up!” 

Lando attempts to lift a stroopwafel from his tray, unamused when it refuses to budge where syrup had semi-permanently glued it to the metal surface. “See? It’s up!” The tray lifts instead.

Oscar shakes his head in amusement. “Look.” He picks up the stroopwafel he’d made seconds earlier. “Just take this one.” He slips the wafel into a small parchment sleeve and hands it to Lando, who accepts it graciously. Oscar does the same with another, presumably for himself to enjoy. 

“Fine.” Lando says, feigning disinterest. Frankly, he’s glad Oscar gives his hands something to do, otherwise he’d trail behind him, not knowing where else to redirect his nervous energy. They are alone now, the rest of the crew having hurried off to a scheduled meeting. 

“Come with me.” The younger then gestures to the door and Lando follows him outside. 

Oscar brings him outside the paddock to a bench. They sit down unceremoniously with a healthy distance in between–not too far to where both of them could rest their hands on their sides, yet close enough to where their thighs would touch if Lando moved his knee just an inch to his–

“What are you doing?” Oscar asks plainly. 

There’s people around them now–any semblance of privacy stripped away as quickly as it had appeared. He questions Lando with such bluntness, and it’s as though those brown eyes are boring right through him with a probing look. 

Does he know? He can’t know that Lando likes him in that way, he can usually hide behind a barrier of media-amplified brashness that can easily be mistaken as flirtatious energy. It’s difficult to tell if he’s flirting or flirting. However, Oscar is less gullible–he knows it in the subtle differences in eye contact, complexion, the deeper parts of Lando’s mind as well as the more vulnerable bits. Or, Lando hopes not.

“What do you mean?” Lando jumps where he’s seated, hands folded in his lap, accessorized with none other than a few rings and a graciously gifted stroopwafel. It’s still warm, though any longer in his fiddling fingers and the syrupy goop would seep through the thin parchment and make a sticky mess. 

He takes a rough bite. The stroopwafel is delicious, caramel filling blending perfectly with the near-crispy wafer that’d softened in the middle. Oscar really is a craftsman. 

“I mean, what’s going on with you?” His expression softens. “You haven’t been your usual self lately.”

“In what way?”

Oscar takes a breath. “Y–You’re more withdrawn.” 

“Oh, so that’s the issue? Why would that be a problem?” Lando retorts, half-offended, half relieved. His infatuation seems to be playing off as ‘withdrawn’ or whatever Oscar’s saying. He’s not ready to unveil the actual reasons so he settles with giving the Aussie a passable excuse or two.

“Err I don't know?” Oscar tilts his head at an angle that makes his hair droop slightly over his left eye. “We have qualifying tomorrow and I just wanna make sure you’re doing alright.” 

“I see.” Lando nods, losing himself in Oscar’s freckles. It’s reassuring, that despite Oscar’s grip on his headspace, he’s observant, compassionate. It only brings him closer to heartache. 

“So…are you?” 

“Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be?” 

Oscar’s eyes are contemplative, flitting somewhere between his shoes and the painted asphalt in front of them as he thinks of solutions. “It’s okay, I can talk to Zac or the media team–hell I could get you out of PR for a bit if that’s what you really need–” 

“I said I’m fine, Osc.” Lando reassures his teammate with an appreciative look. “I’m just worried about the future.”

“Which part?” 

“I dunno,” Lando says. “Driving for one…I think the expectations can be a lot, l–like I’m accountable for everything wrong with the team.”   

“But that’s also my responsibility. The team’s as well.” He knows Oscar is referring to their most recent 1-2 finish, where Lando missed out on his second win due to a strategy mixup. Oscar hadn’t felt any better about the way it went down, though it did make for a memorable maiden win regardless. He wishes things were different for Lando’s sake, but it’s also something they both need to move past if they want to have a shot at the championship or at the very least, Constructors’. “What else are you worried about?”

“Personal stuff…” Lando’s voice fades into silence, vocal remnants lingering in the air for Oscar to pick apart. He’s struggling with finding the confidence to do what he needs to, to say what he needs to. But Oscar makes it so easy to say all the right things because nothing feels inherently wrong when he’s pouring his thoughts out to one of his closest friends. 

Friends. Lando can’t just boil him down to the title of ‘friend.’ He’s much more than that, he’s his teammate, colleague, confidant, his person. There’s no evidence that suggests otherwise. 

Except now, he can’t say the one thing he needs so desperately off his tongue. Oscar looks at him, puzzled. 

“And what would that be?” Oscar’s eyes are trained on him like they’d been when Lando snapped that candid of his teammate not even a full day prior. Inquisitive–not in a way that’s naive, but quite the opposite. He looks at Lando like he’s examining the inner workings of his mind, perusing the folds of his brain while leaving small traces of his presence–of which Lando’s psyche latches onto dearly.

“I can’t say.” Lando manages.

“Yeah you can, mate.” Oscar chuckles and Lando sees a flash of his smile. “I don’t bite or anything.”

Lando laughs halfheartedly. Honestly, that’d be nice. He could picture that shy grin, that adorable, bunny-toothed smile that curves upward, arching into perfect canines. Canines that would sink graciously into Lando’s bottom lip, drawing him closer in a bruising, metallic kiss. He wonders how gentle he’d be with him–or rough for that matter.  

Fuck. He can’t keep thinking about his teammate like that–especially not while spilling his heart out about him, to him. “Okayyy” He draws out the last syllable. “Let’s say that–hypothetically,”

“Hypothetically, yeah–” Oscar lifts a brow. His lips part during his remark and never quite shut all the way, the sound trailing off into a languid exhale.

“–that I like someone.”

At that, Oscar perks up to face Lando. “Since when? You broke up with her not too long ago, right?” 

“Yeah neither of us were actually feeling it. Grew apart. I like someone else now–” 

“Who–”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay, what about her?” Oscar asks, willing to pry a little more for some information. Maybe it’d explain why Lando hadn’t been talking to him as much. It makes sense, though. He’s not one to open up over relationship issues. Anything else? Yes. But this? He’ll take anything he can get. 

Lando sighs, largely in relief–Oscar has no clue. “H-she’s a close friend of mine, someone I’ve known for a few years and gotten to know more of recently.” He begins. “I don’t know if I can like her though. It’d make everything too complicated.” 

“How so?” 

“She umm…works here.” 

Oscar’s eyes open a fraction wider, absorbing the information quickly. “What if…she signed an NDA?” His eyebrows perk up impossibly higher. “Ah, I’ve got it. She already works with us, right?” 

“Yeah, but–”

“She’s familiar with our schedules and understands our time commitments. There’s no long distance–she’d be with you most of the days. That’s perfect, Lando.”

“I mean, look at it realistically. I’m a driver . Whenever I let someone in, they’re placed under so much pressure.” Lando thinks back to previous relationships, reminders of the hurt Lando caused when he chose his career, his life every time. He carries the blame with him like a heavy weight, in the tension behind his brows. 

“Some people are okay with it. I’d be okay if I were in their situation.” Oscar says with a surprising amount of ease and earnestness. It’s a hypothetical, Lando reminds himself. Not a promise. 

“Would they really be?”

“The right person would understand you the way you need them to.”

It’s funny, really. Oscar giving Lando all the reasons their relationship could work–it’s almost too feasible, yet he can’t overlook all the reasons it can’t. Fleeting touches in the paddock, sneaking off to drivers’ rooms, interlocking hands before races and hopefully on the podium after–all of it will inevitably be caught on camera and uploaded to the internet where, as usual, they’re under the scrutiny of millions. 

And here Oscar is, advising Lando on all the ways to woo himself. 

“You’re getting too far ahead, Osc. I don’t know if she even likes me.”

“Ask her.” He insists.

“I can’t .” Lando says with an exasperated sigh, brows scrunching in frustration. He takes another bite, hoping the sugary concoction would dull the rising pain in his chest. 

“Her loss.” The Aussie mutters, noticing the lack of a reaction from Lando, realizing his vision zoned out somewhere in the distance. 

And to that, Oscar takes another bite of his own stroopwafel. He makes a delighted expression, sitting along the lines of curiosity and satisfaction when he chews at an increasing pace. It somehow tastes better when it’s been warmed under his fingers. 

The earlier conversation is dropped, Oscar figures it’s better left alone for now. 

As Lando studies Oscar’s visage, his mind is akin to that of a camera. A swirl of blades adjusting the lens’ aperture, letting light in only when permitted. And when it flashes, the image of his focal point is forever imprinted into his memory. He must be careful what he allows to be captured, for fear of letting Oscar permeate the entirety of his mind.

Lando turns his head toward Oscar, blinking him in. “You’ve got a bit of syrup on your mouth.” He sees a tiny dribble of the sweet filling on the corner of Oscar’s lips—his eyes trail to the crook of his now open mouth, the dart of a pink tongue attempting to lick away the mess.

“Where?” Oscar asks, a silly look painted on his face as Lando watches his tongue reach for the wrong side. “I can’t seem to find it.”

“Here, you muppet.” Lando holds in a breath and reaches over with his right hand, thumb pad making contact with the junction between his upper and lower lip, swiping the syrup off in one go. The touch is brief, and Lando still feels the static-like spark of warmth on his fingertips when he pulls away. 

Oscar blushes faintly and gives Lando a look that makes him melt into a helpless puddle of arms, legs, and papaya fabric. 

“Thanks.” His reply is short, genuine. He stands, silhouette now casting a shadow over Lando’s seated figure. Oscar notices his pupils are blown wide, two black spheres eclipsing turquoise irises.

“I’ll see you for qualifying?” Lando switches the subject, reluctantly ending the conversation to spare his heart from throbbing persistently in its ribbed enclosure. 

“Course, mate.” Oscar smiles and walks away, half-eaten stroopwafel still in hand. 

Thankfully, Oscar doesn’t catch when Lando raises his finger to lick the residue off, because that’s the closest he can get to him without raising any flags. Yellow, red, white—he can’t risk it. 

Granted, the only flags he wants to raise are checkered. 

-

Qualifying goes brilliantly. 

By a small but significant margin, Lando passed the line first, granting himself pole position ahead of Max, his teammate, and the rest of the grid. 

Eyes search the paddock, scanning for a familiar head of wavy brown hair. Instead, he spots Oscar’s black cap first, the number ‘81’ embroidered in the same color–the wisps of light umber are covered, peeking out slightly on the sides. Before Lando is close enough to call out his name, a few press team members and journalists whisk him away for a post-quali interview.

The interview drags on.

He answers questions as quickly as he can without sounding too verbose—all he can think of is getting back to the trailers where Oscar must be lingering. He’s excited for the two of them to be starting up front, nevermind the Red Bull driver between them in P2. The car was quite promising this season with its new updates, improved tyre temperature regulation, and general grip on even the more challenging tracks. Despite his small chances at winning the Driver’s Championship, he’s determined to win the Constructor’s for his team alongside Oscar. 

Shortly after the interview, Lando beelines for the McLaren trailers behind the paddock. He drinks in the crisp air with each step, pausing halfway through an inhale when his eyes lock on Oscar’s. 

“Hi.” Lando exhales, breathing still quick from the sprint. 

Oscar is leaning against Lando’s trailer, a single leg propped up on the white paint, a hand coursing through the frontmost swoops of his hair. The strands lift for a split second, returning back to their original place as though they were never disturbed. His eyes peer openly at Lando. 

“Your pants are down.” Oscar says simply, pressing his lips together. Surely he’s holding in a laugh.

Lando looks down at himself; his unzipped race suit has indeed fallen from where it was previously tied around his waist. Scrunched layers of orange fabric pool mid-thigh almost begging to be lifted from their pitiful suspension. “Oh,” is all he can manage. A flush of red in his face betrays him. 

At that, Oscar’s face lights up. The beginnings of a laugh hang in the air as he opens his mouth again to speak, this time with a toothy smile. 

Lando would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little annoyed. “Seriously mate, I just scored pole and you’re mocking me?” 

“What? It’s a statement of fact.” Oscar defends in a jocular tone. “Congrats by the way.”

“You too. Keep Max busy tomorrow, will ya?” Lando pulls him in for a hug. It’s warm, the sensation of Oscar's chest on his collarbones, lean muscle pressing firmly into the neck of his shirt, slender hands making their way gently up his back. Warmth ebbs and flows between them, a steady tide of pumping blood, adrenaline, and nerves. He wishes it’d last longer.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll be keeping you busy.” Oscar chuckles into Lando’s ear before pulling away. 

Lando feels his throat tighten–from the proximity or the challenge, he’s not certain. Regardless, the race would be a close one. Recently, the team had been encouraging both of them to push the limits, even if it meant overtaking the other in traditional racing fashion. 

“Not a chance.”

“Your pants are still down.” Oscar shrugs. 

“Fuck off.” Lando giggles, reaching down to grasp the upper half of his suit. Had he not worn his fireproofs underneath, he’d be a lot more embarrassed than he already is. 

Oscar ignores the comment, dropping the foot that had previously been planted on the side of the trailer. He does this often, shoes leaving Oscar-sized footprints on the otherwise unmarred surface. And of course Lando lets him get away with it every time. 

“Your chariot awaits.” A hand opens the trailer door, the other sweeping up in an overly-dramatic gesture as Lando clutches the drooping fabric and stumbles up the steps. The trailer shifts moderately as both of them enter the room. 

Silence infiltrates the room, seeping into corners, windowsills, disappearing just as quickly as it came with the soft shuffle of racing shoes on veneer floors and a soft ‘floomf’ when Oscar sinks into the couch. 

Across from Oscar, Lando collapses onto the nearby bed, the impact punching a sharp breath of air from his lungs. He groans and stretches his limbs, kicking off the rest of his race suit. He’s soon left in his fireproofs, sweat still laminating the fabric to his skin. Air conditioning sends a shiver through his spine, prickling the exposed skin beneath a tapered haircut. 

Normally, they’d have so much to say. Lando had just gotten pole position, for christ’s sake. McLaren has much better tyre management and a more consistent engine in comparison to last year’s disgraceful stint. 

Still lying on his stomach, Lando repositions himself until his eyes meet Oscar’s–round pools of molasses, tantalizingly saccharine. Within seconds, the energy in the room shifts, the lightheartedness of their earlier conversation morphing into apprehension.

“Tell me about this person you like.” Oscar is first to break the silence, blinking away invisible lasers between them. 

“I thought we were going to talk about the race.” Lando says, a desperate attempt to talk about anything but this. He doesn’t know how much he can reveal to Oscar without giving himself away.

“We have a meeting in a bit. Plenty of time to talk with our strategists.” 

“Why’s it important to you?” Lando’s stark defensiveness hits Oscar sharply; the former immediately regrets his tone, still feeling the bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“You’re important to me.” Oscar falters. “I… want to make sure this person is right for you.” 

Important to him in what way? Lando knows they’re close, but in all the ways he doesn’t want to be. Oscar’s never felt more distant. 

Lando responds without thinking. “He doesn't know I like him.” Shit.

“He?” Oscar shoots Lando a questioning look. Lando’s brain scrambles for some solid foundation upon which he can craft up yet another excuse. Unfortunately, he lands in quicksand, accepting the sinking feeling in his chest knowing he’d kept Oscar in the dark for so long. He hopes and prays that Oscar thinks he’s crushing on a random mechanic instead of his close friend and teammate.

“Shit, yeah.” Lando’s still holding his breath–he’s not yet out in the clear. “Surprised?”

“Not really.” Oscar deadpans. He says this in a way that’d make anyone believe they were see-through–though if Lando was this transparent, he’d be embarrassed but relieved to be freed from this increasingly convoluted charade. Still, there’s no indication of judgment from Oscar; Lando doesn’t remember ever feeling judged, except in humorous situations during which he probably deserves it. The softness in Oscar’s eyes almost reaches the amusement in his cheekbones. “You’re quite obvious when you stare, you know?”

“You just have really good proportions.” Lando deflects. 

“I wasn’t talking about myself…” Oscar responds. Of course he wasn’t. But Lando couldn’t be that obvious? Then again, throughout his karting and racing career, he wasn’t the most covert person out there. People were used to him flirting in conversation, casting coy glances at anyone he found remotely attractive. Oscar had been referring to that.

Uncharacteristically, he’d always been careful with Oscar, leaving a thin, windowed partition between them–solid enough to create a definitive barrier but still transparent enough for Lando to observe from afar. The realization hits Oscar more forcibly than Lando’s earlier confession. 

“Ah.” Oscar emits a small sound, lips still parted as his mind trails off to process the oddly direct yet ambiguous hint.

“I-I meant,” Lando stammers, a pathetic excuse bubbling in his throat, “–like in photography, you’re very photogenic.”

“Am I?” Oscar asks, not fully convinced, “...thought I always looked uninterested or dull in photos.”  

“That’s what your mum tells you. She wants you to smile more.” I want you to smile more, he nearly admits. Lando pushes himself into a seated position at the corner of the bed closest to Oscar. 

“What about the public?”

“You’re joking.” Lando emits a strained laugh that borders on disbelief. “There’s a reason why they call you Oscar ‘ heart-eyes’ Piastri.” 

“Errr I don’t think so.” 

“You’ve got to be blind.” An eye roll is shot at Oscar, who receives it with a shrug. “Look…Ah!” Lando feigns shock, shifting his attention to the device in his hand. “Our admin posted. Bless her.” 

He knows this already. He knows because he’d been waiting . Waiting for the notification from Mclaren that’d reveal the photos of Oscar to the public, waiting for fans to confirm that, yes, Oscar Piastri is the most endearing person to ever be photographed. 

Blame Lando for having had the nerve to log onto a private account, search the photos up again–he’d seen them before qualifying, of course–and stare for a little while. All motor control ceases to function when he takes in Oscar’s lashes, freckles, smooth skin–and he thanks the heavens he’s on his private account when shaky thumbs accidentally like the post too early, the sight of the red shape sending a temporary shockwave in through his chest.

And god his eyes. It’s all in those eyes.

Those eyes are looking at him expectantly, and Lando freezes in place for a millisecond. A beat after, he shoves his phone–now logged into his main account–in Oscar’s direction, letting the Aussie lock his vision on the small screen before him. 

‘Stay tuned for the results. 📸’ The caption reads. Oscar fidgets slightly with the phone in his hands. “It’s your photo from the other day.”

“A photo of me taking a photo of you .” Lando corrects, standing up and moving to Oscar’s side of the couch. Oscar’s back is pressed into the same corner of the cushions, giving space for Lando to stand directly behind him. 

Good. Lando says to himself. Oscar won’t be able to read his face when he inevitably swipes to the photo Lando had spent hours memorizing, emblazoning into the back of his retinas. 

He slips the phone into Oscar’s open palm, the latter grasping it before it slides to the floor. The first thing Oscar sees is Lando, his mullet on full display, camera fitted in his fingers, pointing to the right. 

And then Oscar swipes.

Oh. The photo isn’t spectacular by any means, but rather his expression. The image is soft in ways he couldn’t imagine and he agrees, Lando is right. In the photo, his eyes are anything but uninterested–warm, carefree, and blissful. He could use a haircut, he thinks. But Lando hadn’t commented on it being too long–he usually asks him if it is–so he’ll keep the length so long as it doesn’t get into his eyes. 

Thousands of comments flood the screen when he clicks the drop-down. He’s hardly on Instagram except for media and occasional team-related posts, so this revelation is quite shocking to him. Fans commenting mostly, if not all positive remarks and compliments he’d never think applied to him. Soft. Genuine. Cute.

Is this how Lando sees him, how the rest of the fans see him? 

“Don’t act so surprised.” Lando’s now looking over Oscar’s shoulder, head close enough that if he’d inched any lower, his chin would rest perfectly in the junction of Oscar’s neck and shoulder, hair tickling his ear. 

Oscar is startled at the sudden noise, turning to face Lando.

“So you’re saying, people think I’m cute ?” Oscar tilts his head in question, trapping Lando flush into a corner where verity meets deflection.

“You are cute.” He responds too fast. The statement falls off Lando’s tongue with an alarming level of honesty. At this, he feels tendrils of heartstrings, pulling taut under the pressure of his confession, blooms of fire igniting within his chest. He can’t hide the overwhelming flush in his face, painting his cheekbones scarlet.

“You’re joking.” Oscar’s brows raise minutely.

“No, I’m serious.” Lando wishes he’d stopped there. “You’re easy on the eyes. The other day–yesterday–when we were making stroopwafels, you looked so adorable cutting out the shapes.” Oscar’s attention is now piqued, if it hadn’t been already. Lando continues, “I could watch you make them all day.”

What Lando doesn’t say is he wishes he could watch Oscar every day, without the chef or media team in the frame. He wishes for peaceful mornings, watching Oscar meticulously drizzling syrup on pancakes, or doing that silly eyebrow furrow when he scrolls through his phone first thing in the morning. The things he’d do to see Oscar’s hair after waking up, ruffled and in a haphazard disarray from his pillow–or by anything other than that ridiculous post-race balaclava. Even then, Lando still catches himself staring.

Their faces are a few inches apart now. Lando doesn’t dare exhale, for fear of his shaky breath fanning across Oscar’s lips in a telltale sign of nervous desire.

But it’s Oscar’s lips that move first. “Thanks.” Is all he says. And Lando feels like kicking himself in the gut.

The Brit stiffens, standing upright and releasing air from his lungs in a slow stream. “Yeah.” Lando sighs.

“So…” Oscar starts, redirecting the conversation and clumsily shifting all the way around in his seat. He no longer has to crane his neck around to face Lando, who’s already sitting back down on the corner of the bed. “How do you feel about tomorrow?” 

Tension hangs heavily in the air; neither of them can address this shift in demeanor without opening another can of worms. “I can’t seem to get the power and timing right during starts.” Lando huffs. 

Oscar casts him a sympathetic look. “Talk about it during our briefing today. If you can’t get it fixed, try overtaking a quarter of the way through.” 

“Why then?” 

“Max’s tyres degrade faster so you’ll have a better shot.”

“And you know this…how?” A smirk makes its way across Lando’s face. 

“You should know.” Oscar pokes. “Figured all that time looking at his back tyres would give you a hint.”

“Come on, that was only in Spa, you know we both did better in Hungary.” Lando chuckles. There’s a hidden edge of sorrow in his voice; they’d ended with a 1-2 at the cost of another win for Lando and at the detriment of Oscar’s first win celebrations. He did deserve it, and Lando agrees he could’ve handled it differently—some part of him still harbors guilt and shame.

“Alright, I’ll let you entertain that memory yourself.” Oscar’s tone isn’t bitter, rather, more serious.

Lando exhales, biting his lip raw, lingering bits of dried skin rough against his tongue. “I think I’d rather entertain Zak’s bullshit than relive that. We’re seeing him in a few for the meeting anyways.” 

“What else is on the agenda today?” Oscar probes, despite being quite familiar with Lando’s post-quali routine. Scroll through socials, attend a team briefing, and drive back to their hotel. It’s the same as Oscar’s, apart from the first step–which for him means a well-deserved slumber. The calculating look he gives Lando is indicative of desire for something…else. 

Something that neither of them touched upon, only danced around, like two opposing panels of a spinning glass door. 

Cracks start to form.

“What do you have in mind?” Lando presses. He’s not letting Oscar any further until he receives some more solid confirmation. His head pounds in anxious anticipation. 

“I dunno. We could play a game back at the hotel?” Oscar’s voice is tinged with longing—or Lando hopes it really does. “I’ve got COD on my laptop.” 

“Same, let’s do it at mine—your room has shit lighting. Lando’s invitation feels like any other one he’d given when Oscar would come over to wind down. Flames tickle the inner surfaces of his sternum as he envisions Oscar seated in his bed, computer in lap, headphones pressed into soft hair. The lighting doesn’t actually matter, he just revels in the giddy feeling when he sees Oscar in his room, in his bed. 

“‘Course it does, you picked your room first.” Oscar isn’t really complaining about the lighting either.

“Too slow.” 

Oscar’s fast with his quip. “Too greedy.”

“Too whipped.” Lando responds quicker.

“I—I’m not .” Oscar says defensively. “Why would anyone—“

“I’m just fucking with you, Osc.” Lando teases, teeth flashing white as creases form around his eyes. 

That part is true—but Oscar’s fucking with Lando just as much—albeit unknowingly. The latter’s brain is spinning in dizzy delight, basking in the syllables that roll off Oscar’s tongue and pinch red marks on Lando’s cheekbones.

“You always do.” The Aussie delivers a light jab to Lando’s shoulder, which the latter receives expectantly. A wave of his hand and Oscar’s arm retreats back to where it rested on his side. His watch is now buzzing with an alarm, a signal indicating five minutes until their team briefing. 

“See you after the meeting?” Lando asks.

“I’ll see you at the meeting.” Oscar corrects, breaking away from the couch to head for the trailer door. The door opens with a shrill squeak. 

“Meeting doesn’t count.” Lando shakes his head, looking through his lashes at Oscar from the edge of his bed. Oscar’s well aware that he zones out during meetings often–hell, he’d hardly interact until strictly necessary. Neither of them really talk to each other during those briefings. Their lack of habitual banter at meetings speeds up the process anyway. 

“Alright. See you at yours.” 

—

Five knocks, followed by two.

“Come in,” Lando calls after the boy at the doorway.

He’s standing there, backpack half slung across his left shoulder, silhouette blocking the beams of light emitted from the hallway. Seconds later, the door is shut and Oscar is already kicking his shoes off by the entry. “I brought my setup.”

“You want the desk?” Lando starts. It’s too late–Oscar’s already making himself at home on his bed, ignoring him since it’s clearly evident where he planned on sitting. The backpack is unzipped, feet shoved under the covers, back propped up against a plush headboard. It’s a practiced series of movements Oscar never really has to think about. They play these games often enough during race weekends that it’s become so routine, bordering on the edge of domestic .

The two boys are both at their laptops now, Oscar seated comfortably in bed, Lando fidgeting in a spinning chair. Quiet music plays from both computers, silent as to not disturb any neighbors. 

“I have a good feeling about tomorrow.” Oscar says, eyes not lifting from the screen. Deft fingers fly across the keyboard, another hand holding the mouse over a hotel menu turned makeshift mousepad.

“Same, I think at least one of us will be on the podium.” 

“Yeah.” Oscar agrees, the character on screen pausing at a corner to reload. 

“Defend them for me, will you?” Lando asks while targeting two enemy players on his laptop. They fall quickly from where they’re standing two doors away. 

“Who said anything about that? No way I’m going without a fight, you know this.” Oscar looks up from his device for half a second, locking eyes on the back of Lando’s head. There’s a moment of silence before Lando responds, the music and sound effects of the game echoing off wallpaper and high ceilings. 

Lando bites his lip. “Yeah, Zak did give us the go ahead. I just want to make sure it’s a clean result for both of us.”

Oscar has the gall to laugh wholeheartedly at that last statement. “Please, I know you hate when I’m behind you.” Lando does, in fact, dislike the looming silhouette of an orange race car in his side mirrors. 

“Even worse when you’re ahead.” The Brit adds. 

“You love it.” Although Lando can’t see Oscar’s face from where he’s sitting, he’s sure the Aussie has a devious look on his face, teeth catching on his lips momentarily as they so often do. 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

–

A few hours go by; Oscar’s still on his laptop finishing off one last game while Lando has now spun around in his chair, a disposable camera pointed at the former. Discarded trays once full of microwaveable meals sit neatly in a bin, evidence of a quick dinner over a nice sit-down meal. They didn’t find it necessary to leave the room when all they needed was friendly company after a day of work-related interactions.

From Lando’s view at the desk, he can see Oscar leaning against the headboard, hair ruffled up in the back where his head meets the gray fabric. The rest of his hair carries the same airiness, settling in an expansive puff of light umber across his normally-visible forehead. His eyes are accented with white reflections, lips adorned with the same glow. A few clicks later and Lando has immortalized his view on a small roll of film. 

Moments later, the frame changes; Oscar closes his laptop with an audible ‘click’ and slides it into his backpack, which had migrated to the floor. There’s silence, save for the rustling of bedsheets and a hand adjusting the pillow around his head. “My eyes are tired,” he blinks wearily. 

“You’re just tired, man.” Lando speculates, rewarded with the sight of Oscar’s half-shut eyes peeking out from under the sheets. He wonders how Oscar can even breathe with the blanket covering his mouth and nose. Granted, the room is quite chilly. 

“I don’t want to move.” Oscar mumbles, shifting coming to a halt when he finds a comfortable position. It wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if Oscar stayed with him–he revels at the thought of seeing Oscar the next morning, sunlight casting a golden glow on his hair. 

“Then don’t.” Lando’s voice almost comes out as a plea. 

There’s no response from the boy in his bed, only the sound of soft breathing, the rise and fall of the comforter, and the visual of Oscar tucked like a cocoon in Lando’s bed.

“Goodnight, Osc.” He whispers, hand reaching past the desk to shut the main light. Lando stands up–disposable camera in hand–to walk toward his side of the bed. 

He’ll look through the photos later when they’re developed. For now, the anticipation, in tandem with the impending race, stirs a powerful whirlwind in his chest. If only the whirlwind would replace the pounding of his heart, the beat echoing tauntingly in his eardrums. 

Normally, he’d toss the portable camera aside into the mound of clothes atop his suitcase. However, it goes without saying that, when he carefully sets it on the nightstand by his phone, Lando’s going to keep those photos as safe as possible. He’ll hold them as close as he possibly can, because it’s the closest he’ll ever get to having Oscar to himself.

Lando finally crawls into the sheets, turning to his left toward Oscar, whose entire face is now visible after he’d shifted under the covers. Despite Oscar sleeping right beside him, he’s never felt so far away.

–

The next morning, Oscar wakes first. 

Thankfully, the race doesn’t take place until mid-afternoon, sparing them a few more hours of sleep than previous nights. 

Oscar is quiet when he packs up his belongings and heads for the door; however, in a momentary lapse of thought, he walks over to Lando’s side where he’s still sleeping, curls frizzy against the pillowcase. 

Without a thought, he leans over and presses the lightest kiss on Lando’s forehead, careful to brush the curls out of the way with one hand. In spite of the budding petals that blossom in his chest, he continues to stare longingly at his sleeping teammate, who shifts briefly and lets out an exhale. 

Oscar can’t tell if he’s still asleep, but he whispers to him anyway. “Good luck, Lando.” His voice is groggy from sleep but gentle nonetheless.

With that, he turns and leaves as swiftly as he’d entered the night before. 

– 

Soon enough, they’re both in their cars, waiting at their respective positions on the grid. Lando sits impatiently, and it’s no surprise that his leg starts bouncing with fervor. The mental pressure is insurmountable–if he messes up the start, he’ll extend the gap between him and Max, destroying any last chances for the driver standings to narrow. He feels this pressure in the way his helmet sits suffocatingly on his head, pressing his cheekbones, temples, the crown of his skull. 

Despite the restricted space in his helmet, Lando can almost feel a familiar sensation of carmine carnation petals above his brows. Just behind him, Oscar sits patiently in P3, eyes trained to the rows of stationary red bulbs ahead. Lando whispers a silent ‘good luck, Osc’ when the lights start counting down. 

Lights off. Lando’s just as quick to start but the acceleration isn’t as adjacent to his reaction. In a frustrating lapse of half a second, Lando loses his place to Max. However, as his strategist had said in the briefing, his pace is consistently better–his only move now is to wait for a chance at an overtake. His thoughts trail back to Oscar’s words on overtaking Max. Max’s tyres degrade faster…try overtaking a quarter of the way through. 

So Lando keeps his head down, applying the perfect amount of pressure to the driver in front, weaving into place along an invisible line. His tyres reward him amply, friction on the asphalt providing the right friction and grip he needs to stay within reach. 

18 laps later, the window opens. Lando seizes the opportunity, gaining an incredible speed on the straight. Turn one is fast approaching–he takes the inside line, confident that his tyres will take him through the turn without slipping. And when he does, the move forces Max to conserve his tyres instead of defending. Just like that, Lando’s back at the head of the race. 

The rest of the race is a blur–defend, maintain smooth exits, pit, regain positions–rinse and repeat. His eyes are straining, shaking violently in his sockets with each kerb, each high-speed corner dizzying but exhilarating all at once.

He doesn’t dare look behind, focusing on maintaining the pace, building speed, adding extra seconds in between himself and whoever’s behind him at every lap. 

And he does it.

Lando crosses the line at P1, earning the second win of his career. He’s elated, cheering with both rapture and relief as his car slows down enough for balled fists to fly up and over the halo in celebration. He thanks the team, savoring the celebrations for the second time this year as a race winner. Lando is sped through post-race media obligations, still buzzing from the high. 

–

It’s been over thirty minutes since the podium and Lando can’t get to Oscar’s driver room any faster. Still clad in his race suit, he races through the paddock, muscle memory taking him farther and farther back until the door frame comes into view. 

Twisting the knob, he opens the door to Oscar, whose face lights up at the sight of him.

“Oh my god Osc, I can’t believe it.”

“You did it!” Oscar pulls him into a hug, chest heaving slightly with the impact. Neither of them seem to mind. I’m so happy for you, mate.”

“Thanks, I owe it to you.” The Brit smiles against the younger’s cheek, red-hot heat scalding his own skin with an addictive burn.

“It was all you out there.”

Lando feels Oscar’s hands, warm against his back as he longed for them to be the night before. Under the tenderness of the embrace, Lando nuzzles his face into Oscar’s shoulder. He could stay there for They pull back slightly when suddenly—

Oscar kisses Lando on the forehead. 

The touch is fleeting, gentle like carnation petals on water, rippling across glassy skin in a light breeze. Lando feels as though he’s dreaming when he realizes he’d felt this sensation earlier—this morning, in fact—when Oscar lingered at his bedside before leaving his room. “So you did kiss me this morning.” Lando exclaims.

“What about it?” Oscar’s hiding a sheepish grin, albeit very poorly. They’ve inched closer, their previously bated breaths mingling shamelessly between them. 

“Do it again.” Lando’s hand tightens its grip around the base of Oscar’s neck, index finger curling to sink deeper in his hair. 

And he obeys. Oscar pulls his arm over Lando’s shoulder until his fingers slide in a tantalizingly slow drag down his jaw. The hand caressing his cheek is impossibly smooth, fingertips stuttering along stubble, subsequently resting in the soft flesh under Lando’s chin.

Hazy brown eyes melt into his, fluttering shut as Lando’s vision goes black. When Oscar’s lips slot onto Lando’s, his tender movements are so achingly slow, in a way that Lando can’t get enough of. Hands fasten tighter under Lando’s chin, a deliberate maneuver that sets him aflame. 

After what feels like hours, their lips part, gleaming lightly with saliva under the warm lighting of the driver’s room. Oscar’s jaw goes slack to drink in the heated air, forehead now pressed against Lando’s because neither of them want to break away just yet. 

Lando’s the first to say anything, his voice low and gravely from the adrenaline rush. “God, I’ve wanted this for ages. ” He breathes. 

Oscar looks down, a small huff of amusement and laughter sending aftershocks through Lando’s brain. He can still feel Lando’s hands in his hair. “Can’t say the same,” he jokes, as inopportune as ever. 

“You take that back.” Lando doesn’t feel the slightest bit of offense at Oscar’s dry comment. His heart is still racing at the thought of having just kissed his friend. Instead, he scratches the back of Oscar’s neck, sending another shiver down the latter’s spine. “You just kissed me.”

“Well yeah.” Oscar mumbles. Lando feels the rise of his shoulders when Oscar shrugs and raises his brows, their noses almost touching. “You’re cute, of course I’d kiss you.”

“I think you’re the one that’s cute.” Lando says unabashedly. They’d crossed that line, the one that’d been holding Lando back by the throat. Words escape him willingly now. 

“Yeah, but…” Oscar begins.

“What?” 

“I’m just not sure you see me the same way.” It comes out so earnestly. Lando’s taken aback at Oscar’s skewed perspective–he’s appalled that Oscar hadn’t felt convinced enough to welcome the thought of his own teammate liking him. The Brit must have either been more careful than he predicted, or Oscar just needed more confirmation. He goes with the second option.

Lando spells it out for him so Oscar doesn’t have to. “As in liking you?”

“Yeah, that.”

“I’ve liked you for a while.” Lando confesses. He inhales sharply, remembering Oscar’s face how he’d seen it through that damned camera lens. “Didn’t know how much I did ‘til I took that photo of you–after that, I couldn’t not notice you.”

“So…you’re saying you’ve liked me this whole time? 

“Yeah. When I told you about that person I liked—that was you, Osc. It’s always been you.” A weight lifts off his sternum, deflating his lungs with air he wasn’t aware he’d been holding back.

At that, Oscar is left speechless, a blush painting his face in the most gorgeous hues, freckles and moles illuminated by the rosy backdrop. His hair falls into his face, and Lando takes the liberty of running his free hand through the waves, cherishing the feeling of the silken strands. 

“You’re adorable when you blush.” Lando notices. Fuck, he’s so weak for this man.  

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Oscar chimes. His smile is so sweet, teeth glistening behind cherry lips. Lando relishes this moment, his vision recording the way Oscar’s hair swoops right above the warmest brown eyes, framing his face, pretty eyelashes, and dusty rose cheeks. He’s perfect. 

“Later.” Lando responds. He’s already captured Oscar’s blushing expression in his mind, delighted to see all the smiles he’ll encounter when he sees Oscar next. And every time after that. He pulls Oscar in for another kiss, and as his eyes shut, all Lando tastes is caramel syrup on his tongue. 

He can’t imagine anything sweeter.